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%^t Ittoer^ttje iLiterature ^txks 



SELECTED ESSAYS 

PROM THE SKETCH;B0O1^ : '.; 

BY 

WASHINGTON - IKVING^ ^^^ 

PRESCRIBED BY THE REGENTS OF THE UNIVERSITY OF 

THE STATE OF NEW YORK FOR THE COURSE 

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WASHINGTON lEVING. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Irving may be named as the first author in the United 
States whose writings made a place for themselves in gen- 
eral literature. Franklin, indeed, had preceded him with 
his autobiography, but Franklin belongs rather to the colo- 
nial period. It was under the influences of that time that 
his mind and taste were formed, and there was a marked 
difference between the Boston and Philadelphia of Frank- 
lin's youth and the New York of Irving' s time. Politics, 
commerce, and the rise of industries were rapidly changing 
social relations and manners, while the country was still 
dependent on England for its higher literature. It had 
hardly begun to find materials for literature in its own past 
or in its aspects of nature, yet there was a very positive ele- 
ment in life which resented foreign interference. There 
were thus two currents crossing each other : the common life 
which was narrowly American, and the cultivated taste 
which was English, or imitative of England. Irving's first 
ventures, in company with his brothers and Paulding, were 
in the attempt to represent New York in literature upon the 
model of contemporary or recent presentations of London. 
" The town " in the minds of these young writers was that 
portion of New York society which might be construed into 
a miniature reflection of London wit and amusement. His 
associates never advanced beyond this stage, but with Wash- 
ington Irving the sketches which he wrote under the signa- 



2 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

ture of Jonathan Old Style and in the medley of Sal- 
magundi were only the first experiments of a mind capa- 
ble of larger things. After five or six years of trifling 
with his pen, he wrote and published, in 1809, A History 
of New York, hy Diedrich Knickerlocker,- which he be- 
gan in company with his brother Peter as a mere jeu d'es- 
prit, but turned into a more determined work of humor, as 
the capabilities of the subject disclosed themselves. Grave 
historians had paid little attention to the record of New 
York under the Dutch ; Irving, who saw the humorous 
contrast between the traditional Dutch society of his day 
and the pushing new democracy, seized upon the early 
history and made it the occasion for a good-natured 
burlesque. He shocked the old families about him, but he 
amused everybody else, and the book, going to England, 
made his name at once known to those who had the making 
there of literary reputations. 

Irving himself was born of a Scottish father and English 
mother, who had come to this country only twenty years 
before. He was but little removed, therefore, from the tra- 
ditions of Great Britain, and his brothers and he carried on a 
trading business with the old country. His own tastes were 
not mercantile, and he was only silent partner in the house ; 
he wrote occasionally and was for a time the editor of a mag- 
azine, but his pleasure was chiefly in travel, good literature, 
and good society. It was while he was in England, in 1818, 
that the house in which he was a partner failed, and he was 
thrown on his own resources. Necessity gave the slight spur 
which was wanting to his inclination, and he began with 
deliberation the career of an author. He had found himself 
at home in England. His family origin and his taste for 
the best literature had made him English in his sympathies 
and tastes, and his residence and travels there, the society 
which he entered and the friends he made, confirmed him in 
English habits. Nevertheless he was sturdily American in 
his principles ; he was strongly attached to New York and 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 

his American friends, and was always a looker-on in Eng- 
land. His foreign birth and education gave him significant 
advantages as an observer of English life, and he at once 
began the writing of those papers, stories, and sketches 
which appeared in the separate numbers of The Sketch 
Book, in Bracehridge Hall, and in Tales of a Traveller. 
They were chiefly drawn from material accumulated abroad, 
but an occasional American subject was taken. Irving in- 
stinctively felt that by the circumstances of the time and the 
bent of his genius he could pursue his calling more safely 
abroad than at home. He remained in Europe seventeen 
years, sending home his books for publication, and securing 
also the profitable results of publication in London. During 
that time, besides the books above named, he wrote the 
History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Colimibus ; 
the Voyages and Discoveries of the Companions of Coluin- 
bus ; A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada ; and The 
Alhambra. The Spanish material was obtained while 
residing in Spain, whither he went at the suggestion of the 
American minister to make translations of documents relat- 
ing to the voyages of Columbus which had recently been 
collected. Irving's training and tastes led him rather into 
the construction of popular narrative than into the work of a 
scientific historian, and, with his strong American affections, 
he was quick to see the interest and value which lay in the 
history of Spain as connected with America. He was emi-= 
nently a raconteur, very skilful and graceful in the shaping 
of old material ; his humor played freely over the surface of 
his writing, and, with little power to create characters or 
plots, he had an unfailing perception of the literary capabil- 
ities of scenes and persons which came under his observation. 
He came back to America in 1832 with an established 
reputation, and was welcomed enthusiastically by his friends 
and countrymen. He travelled into the new parts of Amer- 
ica, and spent ten years at home, industriously working at 
the material which had accumulated in his hands when 



4 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

abroad, and had been increased during his travels in the 
West. In this period he published Legends of the Con- 
quest of Spcdn ; The Crayon Miscellany^ including his 
Tour on the Prairies^ Ahbotsford and Newstead Abbey ; 
Astoria ; a number of papers in the Knickerbocker Maga- 
zine, afterwards published under the title of Wolferfs 
Boost ; and edited the Adventures of Captain Bonneville, 
U. S. A., in the Rocky Mountains and the Far West. 

In 1842 he went back to Spain as American minister, 
holding the office for four years, when he returned to Amer- 
ica, established himself at his home, Sunnyside on the banks 
of the Hudson, and remained there until his death in 1859. 
The fruits of this final period were Mahomet and his Suc- 
cessors, which, with a volume of posthumous publication, 
Spanish Papers and other Miscellanies^ completed the 
series of Spanish and Moorish subjects which form a distinct 
part of his writings ; Oliver Goldsmith, a Biography ; and 
finally a Life of Washington, which occuj)ied the closing 
years of his life, — years which were not free from physical 
suffering. In this book Irving embodied his strong admira- 
tion for the subject, whose name he bore and whose blessing 
he had received as a child ; he employed, too, a pen which had 
been trained by its labors on the Spanish material, and, like 
that series, the work is marked by good taste, artistic sense 
of proportion, faithfulness, and candor, rather than by the 
severer work of the historian. It is a popular and a fair 
life of Washington and account of the war for independence. 

Irving's personal and literary history is recorded in The 
Life and Letters of Washington Irving, by his nephew, 
Pierre M. Irving. A briefer but satisfactory survey of his 
life and work will be found in the volume by Charles Dud- 
ley Warner on Irving, in the American Men of Letters 
Series. 

Washington Irving was born in New York, April 3, 1783, 
and died at Sunnyside on the Hudson, November 28, 1859. 



INTRODUCTION TO RIP VAN WINKLE. 

The story of Rip Van Winkle purported to have been 
written by Diedrich Knickerbocker, who was a humorous in- 
vention of Irving's, and whose name was familiar to the pub- 
lic as the author of A History of New York. The History 
was published in 1809, but it was ten years more before 
the first number of The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon^ 
Gent., was published. This number, which contained Ri^ 
Van Winkle, was, like succeeding numbers, written by Ir- 
ving in England and sent home to America for publication. 
He laid the scene of the story in the Kaatskills, but he drew 
upon his imagination and the reports of others for the scen- 
ery, not visiting the spot until 1833. The story is not ab- 
solutely new ; the fairy tale of The Sleeping Beauty in the 
Wood has the same theme ; so has the story of Epimenides 
of Crete, who lived in the sixth or seventh century before 
Christ. He was said to have fallen asleep in a cave when 
a boy, and to have awaked at the end of fifty-seven years, 
his soul, meanwhile, having been growing in stature. There 
is the legend also of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, Chris- 
tian martyrs who were walled into a cave to which they had 
fled for refuge, and there were miraculously preserved for 
two centuries. Among the stories in which the Harz Moun- 
tains of Germany are so prolific is one of Peter Klaus, a 
goatherd who was accosted one day by a young man who 
silently beckoned him to follow, and led him to a secluded 
spot, where he found twelve knights playing, voiceless, at 
skittles. He saw a can of wine which was very fragrant, 
and, drinking of it, was thrown into a deep sleep, from 
which he did not wake for twenty years. The story gives 



6 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

incidents of his awaking and of the changes which he found 
in the village to which he returned. This story, which was 
published with others in 1800, may very likely have been 
the immediate suggestion to Irving, who has taken nearly 
the same framework. The humorous additions which he 
has made, and the grace with which he has invested the 
tale, have caused his story to supplant earlier ones in the 
popular mind, so that Rip Van Winkle has passed into 
familiar speech, and allusions to him are clearly understood 
by thousands who have never read Irving' s story. The 
recent dramatizing of the story, though following the out- 
line only, has done much to fix the conception of the char- 
acter. The story appeals very directly to a common senti- 
ment of curiosity as to the future, which is not far removed 
from what some have regarded as an instinct of the human 
mind pointing to personal immortality. The name Van 
Winkle was happily chosen by Irving, but not invented by 
him. The printer of the Sketch Book, for one, bore the 
name. The name Knickerbocker, also, is among the Dutch 
names, but Irving's use of it has made it representative. In 
The Author's Apology^ which he prefixed to a new edition 
of the History of New York, he says : "I find its very 
name become a * household word,' and used to give the 
home stamp to everything recommended for popular accep- 
tation, such as Knickerbocker societies ; Knickerbocker in- 
surance companies ; Knickerbocker steamboats ; Knicker- 
bocker omnibuses, Knickerbocker bread, and Knickerbocker 
ice ; and . . . New Yorkers of Dutch descent priding them.- 
selves upon being * genuine Knickerbockers.' " 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre. Cartwright.'^ 

The following tale was found among the papers of the late 
Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who 
was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the 
manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His his- 
torical researches, however, did not lie so much among books 
as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his 
favorite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still 
more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to 
true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine 
Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse under 
a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped vol- 
ume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published 
some years since. There have been various opinions as to the 
literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a 
whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous 
accuracy, which indeed was a little questioned on its first appear- 
ance, but has since been completely established ; and it is now 
admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestion- 
able authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his 
work, and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm 

' William Cartwright, 1611-1643, was a friend and disciple of 
Ben Jonson. 



8 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

to his memory ^ to say that his time might have been much bet- 
ter employed in weightier labors. He^ however, was apt to ride 
his hobby his own way ; and though it did now and then kick up 
the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit 
of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affec- 
tion ; yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow 
than in anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never in- 
tended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be 
appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose 
good opinion is worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit- 
bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their 
new-year cakes ; ^ and have thus given him a chance for immor- 
tality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, 
or a Queen Anne's Farthing.^ 

^ The History of New York had given offence to many old 
New Yorkers because of its saucy treatment of names which 
were held in veneration as those of founders of families, and its 
general burlesque of Dutch character. Among the critics was a 
warm friend of Irving, Gulian C. Verplanck, who in a discourse 
before the New York Historical Society plainly said : " It is 
painful to see a mind, as admirable for its exquisite perception 
of the beautiful as it is for its quick sense of the ridiculous, wast- 
ing the richness of its fancy on an ungrateful theme, and its 
exuberant humor in a coarse caricature." Irving took the cen- 
sure good-naturedly, and as he read Verplanck's words just as 
he was finishing the story of Rip Van Winkle, he gave them this 
playful notice in the introduction. 

2 An oblong seed-cake, still made in New York at New Year's 
time, and of Dutch origin. 

^ There was a popular story that only three farthings were 
struck in Queen Anne's reign ; that two were in public keeping, 
and that the third was no one knew where, but that its lucky 
finder would be able to hold it at an enormous price. As a mat- 
ter of fact there were eight coinings of farthings in the reign of 
Queen Anne, and numismatists do not set a high value on the 
piece. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 9 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dis- 
membered branch of the great Appalachian family, 
and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling 
up to a noble height, and lording it over the surround- 
ing country. Every change of season, every change 
of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces 
some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the 
weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue 
and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky ; but sometimes when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless they will gather a hood of gray 
vapors about their summits, which, in the last rays of 
the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
glory. 

At the foot of these fairy ^ mountains, the voyager 
may have descried the light smoke curling up from a 
village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, 
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
some of the Dutch colonists in the early time of the 
province, just about the beginning of the government 
of the good Peter Stuyvesant,^ (may he rest in peace I) 
and there were some of the houses of the original set- 
tlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow 

^ A light touch to help the reader into a proper spirit for re- 
ceiving the tale. 

2 Stuyvesant was governor of New Netherlands from 1647 to 
1664. He plays an important part in Knickerbocker^ s History of 
New York, as he did in actual life. Until quite recently a pear 
tree was shown on the Bowery, said to have been planted by 
him. 



10 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows 
and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
(which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
while the countrj^ was yet a province of Great Britain, 
a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van 
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege 
of Fort Christina.-^ He inherited, however, but little 
of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
observed that he was a simple, good-natured man ; he 
was, moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance 
might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained 
him such universal popularity; for those men are 
most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, 
who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and mal- 
leable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and 
a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the world 
for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffermg. 
A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects be 
considered a tolerable blessing, and if so. Rip Van 
Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all 
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 
amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles; 
and never failed, whenever they talked those matters 

1 The Van Winkles appear in the illustrious catalogue of 
heroes who accompanied Stuyvesant to Fort Christina, and were 

" Brimful of wrath and cabbage." 

See History of New Yorkf book VI. chap. viii. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 11 

over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame 
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the villasre, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. 
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians, 
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, 
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks 
on him with imjounity ; and not a dog would bark at 
him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insu- 
perable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It 
could not be from the want of assiduity or persever- 
ance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as 
long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day 
without a murmur, even though he should not be en- 
couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowl- 
ing-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and down 
dale, to' shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He 
would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the 
roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone- 
fences ; the women of the village, too, used to employ 
him to run their errands, and to do such little odd 
jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for 
them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to any- 
body's business but his own ; but as to doing family 
duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it im- 
possible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground 
in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong. 



12 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

and would go wrong, in spite o£ Mm. His fences 
were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either 
go astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure 
to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the 
rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some out-door work to do ; so that though his patri- 
monial estate had dwindled away under his manage- 
ment, acre by acre, until there was little more left 
than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it 
was the worst -conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if 
they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin be- 
gotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the 
habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was 
generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's 
heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galli- 
gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one 
hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Kip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can 
be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather 
starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to 
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect 
contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in 
his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the 
ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, 
and night her tongue was incessantly going, and every- 
thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of 
household eloquence. Rip had but one way of reply- 
ing to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent 
use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoul- 
ders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said no- 
thing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 13 

from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw off his 
forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only 
side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and 
even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause 
of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in 
all points of spirit befitting an honorable dc^;, he was 
as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — 
but what courage can withstand the ever-during and 
all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The mo- 
ment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail 
drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he 
sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least 
flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the 
door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
as years of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never 
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 
while he used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village ; which held its sessions on a bench before a 
small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His 
Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
the shade through a long lazy summer's day, talking 
listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth 
any statesman's money to have heard the profound dis- 
cussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an 
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing 



14 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the con- 
tents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bumrnel, the 
school-master, a dapper learned little man, who was 
not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the 
dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon 
public events some months after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely con- 
trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he 
took his seat from morning till night, just moving suf- 
ficiently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a 
large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by 
his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is 
true he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe 
incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great 
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and 
knew how to gather his opinions. When anything 
that was read or related displeased him, he was ob- 
served to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth 
short, frequent and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he 
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and 
emit it in light and placid clouds ; and sometimes, tak- 
ing the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head 
in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 
denty break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage 
and call the members all to naught ; nor was that 
august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred 
from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who 
charged him outright with encouraging her husband in 
habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 15 

and his only alternative, to escape from the labor of 
the farm and clamor of his wife, was to take gun in 
hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he would 
sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share 
the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he 
sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor 
Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's 
life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf 
would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, 
and if dogs can feel pity I verily believe he recipro- 
cated the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a line autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
highest parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was 
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with the re- 
ports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw 
himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, cov- 
ered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow 
of a precipice. From an opening between the trees 
he could overlook all the lower country for many a 
mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent 
but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple 
cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 
sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in 
the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 
with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time E,ip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
gradually advancing the mountains began to throw 



16 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that 
it would be dark long before he could reach the village, 
and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of en- 
countering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
a distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van 
Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing 
"but a crow winging its solitary flight across the moun- 
tain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, 
and turned again to descend, when he heard the same 
cry ring through the still evening air : " Rip Van 
Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — at the same time Wolf 
bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the 
glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him ; he looked anxiously in the same direction, 
and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the 
rocks, and bending under the weight of something he 
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any 
human being in this lonely and unfrequented place ; 
but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood 
in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at 
the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
a short, square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
Dutch fashion : a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
waist, several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample 
volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the 
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with 
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
new acq^uaintance, Rip complied with his usual alac- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 17 

rity ; and mutually relieving one another, they clam- 
bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a 
mountain torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now 
and then heard long rolling peals like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged 
path conducted. He paused for a moment, but sup- 
posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
thunder-showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, sur- 
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks 
of which impending trees shot their branches, so that 
you only caught glimpses of the azure sky and the 
bright evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and 
his companion had labored on in silence ; for though 
the former marvelled greatly what could be the object 
of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet 
there was something strange and incomprehensible 
about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked 
familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre 
was a company of odd-looking personages playing at 
ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish 
fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with 
long knives in their belts, and most of them had enor- 
mous breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large 
beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of 
another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was 
surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a 
little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various 
shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be 



18 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with 
a weather-beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doub- 
let, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and 
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with 
roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the 
figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of 
Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, which had 
been brought over from Holland at the time of the 
settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that 
though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys- 
terious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy 
party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- 
couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned 
within him, and his knees smote together. His com- 
panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling; they 
quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then re- 
turned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. 
He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to 
taste the beverage, which he found had much of the 
flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a 
thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiter- 
ated his visits to the flagon so often that at length his . 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 19 

senses were overpowered, Ms eyes swam in his head, 
his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep 
sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoU 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. 
He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright, sunny morning. 
The birds were hopping and twittering among the 
bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breast- 
ing the pure mountain breeze. " Surely,'' thought 
Rip, " I have not slept here all night." He recalled 
the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange 
man with a keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — 
the wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone 
party at nine-pins — the flagon - — " Oh ! that flagon ! 
that wicked flagon I " thought Rip — " what excuse 
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- 
lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the 
lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now 
suspected that the grave roisters of the mountain had 
put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with li- 
quor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had dis- 
appeared, but he might have strayed away after a 
squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and 
shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated 
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last even- 
ing's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to 
demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he 
found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his 
usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree 
with me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a 



20 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
difficulty he got down into the glen ; he found the 
gully up which he and his companion had ascended 
the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a 
mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping 
from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its 
sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of 
birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes 
tripped up or entangled by the wild grapevines that 
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and 
spread a kind of network in his path. 

At lensfth he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no 
traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented 
a high, impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came 
tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a 
broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought 
to a stand. He again called and whistled after his 
dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock 
of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree 
that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in 
their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? the 
morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for 
want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would 
not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his 
head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart 
full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 21 

prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with every one in the country round. Their dress, 
too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal 
marks of surprise, and whenever they cast their eyes 
upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The con- 
stant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip, involun- 
tarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he 
found his beard had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, 
too, not one of which he recognized for an old ac- 
quaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very 
village was altered ; it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never seen 
before, and those which had been his familiar haunts 
had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors 
— strange faces at the windows, — everything was 
strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to 
doubt whether both he and the world around him 
were not bewitched. Surely this was his native vil- 
lage, which he had left but the day before. There 
stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver 
Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale 
precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely per- 
plexed — " That flagon last night," thought he, " has 
addled my poor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way 
to his own house, which he approached with silent 
awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice 
of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to 
decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, 
and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 



22 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called 
Mm by name, but the cur snarled, sliowed his teeth, 
and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed- — ■ 
"My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten 
me!" 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was 
empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This deso- 
lateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called 
loudly for his wife and children — the lonely cham- 
bers rang for a moment with his voice, and then again 
all was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old re- 
sort, the village inn — but it, too, was gone. A large, 
rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great 
gaping windows, some of them broken and mended 
with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was 
painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet 
little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
naked pole, with something on the top that looked like 
a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on 
which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes 
— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He 
recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of 
King George, under which he had smoked so many a 
peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly metamor- 
phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue 
and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, 
and underneath was painted in large characters, Gen- 
eral Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 23 

the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bus- 
tling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accus- 
tomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in 
vain for the sage Nicholas Yedder, with his broad 
face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds 
of tobacco-smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van 
Bummel, the school-master, doling forth the contents 
of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean, 
bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand- 
bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citi- 
zens — elections — members of congress — liberty — 
Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other 
words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 
bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled beard, 
his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army 
of women and children at his heels, soon attracted 
the attention of the tavern-politicians. They crowded 
round him, eying him from head to foot with great 
curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, draw- 
ing him 'partly aside, inquired " on which side he 
voted ? " Rip started in vacant stupidity. Another 
short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, 
and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether 
he was Federal or Democrat ? " Rip was equally at 
a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, 
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, 
made his way through the crowd, putting them to the 
right and left with his elbows as he passed, and plant- 
ing himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, 
the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp 
hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, de- 
manded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the 
election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 



24 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 
village ? " — " Alas 1 gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat 
dismayed, " I am a poor quiet man, a native of the 
place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless 
him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — 
"A tory! a tory ! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! 
away with him ! " It was with great difficulty that 
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking ? The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
but merely came there in search of some of his neigh- 
bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
" Where 's Nicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
man replied, in a thin, piping voice : " Nicholas Ved- 
der ! why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! 
There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that 
used to tell all about him, but that 's rotten and gone 
too." 

" Where 's Brom Dutcher ? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of 
the war ; some say he was killed at the storming of 
Stony Point ^ — others say he was drowned in a squall 
at the foot of Antony's Nose.^ I don't know — he 
never came back asrain." 



"&' 



1 On the Hudson. The place is famous for the daring assault 
made by Mad Anthony Wayne, July 15, 1779. 

2 A few miles above Stony Point is the promontory of An- 
tony's Nose. If we are to believe Diedrich Kjuckerbocker, it 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 25 

" Where 's Van Bummel, the school-master ? " 

" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
of matters which he could not understand: war — 
Congress — ^ Stony Point; he had no courage to ask 
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
" Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, 
" Oh, to be sure ! that 's Rip Van Winkle yonder, lean- 
ing against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself, as he went up the mountain : apparently as 
lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 

was named after Antony Van Corlear, Stuyvesant's trumpeter. 
" It must be known, then, that the nose of Antony the trum- 
peter was of a very lusty size, strutting boldly from his counte- 
nance like a mountain of Golconda. . . . Now thus it happened, 
that bright and early in the morning the good Antony, having 
washed his burly visage, was leaning over the quarter railing of 
the galley, contemplating it in the glassy wave below. Just at 
this moment the illustrious sun, breaking in all his splendor 
from behind a high bluff of the highlands, did dart one of his 
most potent beams full upon the refulgent nose of the sounder 
of brass — the reflection of which shot straightway down, hissing 
hot, into the water and killed a mighty sturgeon that was sport- 
ing beside the vessel ! . . . When this astonishing miracle came 
to be made known to Peter Stuyvesant he . . . marvelled ex- 
ceedingly ; and as a monument thereof, he gave the name of 
Antonyms Nose to a stout promontory in the neighborhood, and 
it has continued to be called Antony's Nose ever since that 
time." History of New York^ book VI. chap. iv. 



2Q WASHINGTON IRVING, 

In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his 
name? 

" God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end ; " I 'm 
not myself — I 'm somebody else — that 's me yonder 
— no ^ — that 's somebody else got into my shoes — 1 
was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moun- 
tain, and they 've changed my gun, and everything's 
changed, and I 'm changed, and I can't tell what 's my 
name, or who I am ! " 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, 
nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against 
their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about 
securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from 
doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the 
self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some 
precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely 
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at 
the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her 
arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. 
" Hush, Eip," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the 
old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the 
air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened 
a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your 
name, my good woman?" asked he. 

" Judith Gar denier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man, Eip Yan Winkle was his name, 
but it 's twenty years since he went away from home 
with his gun, and never has been heard of since, — 
his dog came home without him ; but whether he shot 
himself, or was ca,rried away by the Indians, nobody 
can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Hip had but one question more to ask ; and he put 
it with, a faltering voice : — 



RIP VAN WINKLE, 27 

'^ Where 's your mother ? " 

" Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she 
broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New Eng- 
land peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort at least, in this intel- 
ligence. The honest man could contain himself no 
longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his 
arms. " I am your father I " cried he — " Young Rip 
Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now ! Does 
nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out 
from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and 
peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, 
"Sure enough it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! 
Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where 
have you been these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The neigh- 
bors stared when they heard it; some were seen to 
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the 
field, screwed * down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head — upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of 
old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advan- 
cing up the road. He was a descendant of the histo- 
rian of that name,^ who wrote one of the earliest 
accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient 
inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the 
wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. 
He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story 
^ Adrian Vanderdonk. 



28 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

in the most satisfactory manner. He assured tlie 
company that it was a fact, handed down from his 
ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill Mountains 
had always been haunted by strange beings. That it 
was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first 
discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of 
vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the 
Half -moon ; being permitted in this way to revisit the 
scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye upon 
the river and the great city called by his name. 
That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch 
dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the moun- 
tain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer 
afternoon, the sound of their balls like distant peals of 
thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
and returned to the more important concerns of the 
election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
her ; she had a snug well-furnished house, and a stout 
cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected 
for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his 
back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of 
himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed 
to work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary dis- 
position to attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather 
the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred 
making friends among the rising generation, with 
whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impu- 
nity, he took his place once more on the bench at the 
inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs 



HIP VAN WINKLE. 29 

of the village, and a chronicle of the old times " before 
the war." It was some time before he could get into 
the regular track of gossip, or could be made to com- 
prehend the strange events that had taken place dur- 
ing his torpor. How that there had been a revolu- 
tionary war — that the country had thrown off the 
yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a 
subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now 
a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was 
no politician ; the changes of states and empires made 
but little impression on him ; but there was one spe- 
cies of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
and that was — petticoat government. Happily that 
was at an end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of 
matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van 
Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, how- 
ever, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and 
cast up his eyes, which might pass either for an ex- 
pression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his deliv- 
erance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that ar- 
rived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at 
first, to vary on some points every time he told it, 
which was, doubtless, owing to his having so recently 
awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale 
I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some always 
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that 
Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one 
point on which he always remained flighty. The old 
Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave 
it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a 
thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaats- 



30 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are 
at their game of ninepins ; and it is a common wish 
of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when 
life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have 
a quieting draught out of Rip Yan Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE. 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspectj had been suggested to 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the 
Emperor Frederick der Rotkbart,^ and the Kypphaiiser moun- 
tain ; the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the 
tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual 
fidelity. 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity 
of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to mar- 
vellous events and appearances. Indeed. I have heard many 
stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson ; all 
of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have 
even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw 
him, was a very old venerable man, and so perfectly rational and 
consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious 
person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have 
seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice 
and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The 
story therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

"D. K." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book 
of Mr. Knickerbocker : — 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a re- 
gion full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of 
spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds 

^ Frederick I. of Germany, 1121-1190, called Barbarossa, der 
Rothbart (Redbeard or Rufus), was fabled not to have died but 
to have gone into a long sleep, from which he would awake 
when Germany should need him. The same legend was told by 
the Danes of their Holger. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 31 

over the landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. 
They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. 
She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge 
of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the 
proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut 
up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs 
and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the moun- 
tain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the 
air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in 
gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, 
and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, 
she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of 
them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and 
when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red rnen. Sometimes 
he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead 
the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forest and 
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! 
leaving liim aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a 
great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and 
from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild 
flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name 
of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the 
haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the 
sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. 
This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that 
the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its pre- 
cincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter, who had lost his 
way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number 
of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized 
and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it 
fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which 
washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was 
dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, 
and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical 
stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER. 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; ■ 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence^ 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
expansion of the river denominated by the ancient 
Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee,^ and where they 
always prudently shortened sail and implored the pro- 
tection of St. Nicholas ^ when they crossed, there lies a 
small market town or rural port, which by some is 
called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and 

1 An exquisite poem by James Thomson, an English poet 
who lived from 1700 to 1748. In it he describes a beautiful pal- 
ace with groves and lawns and flowery beds, where everything 
ministers to the ease and luxury of its lotus-eating inmates. He 
seems to have gathered his materials from Tasso, an Italian 
poet of the sixteenth century, and his inspiration from Spenser, 
an English poet of the same century and the author of The^ 
Faerie Queene. 

2 The " Mediterranean " of the river, as Irving was pleased to 
call it, about ten miles long and four wide. 

^ The patron saint of children, also of sailors. Tradition says 
that he was bishop of Myra in Lydia, and died in 326 A. D. He 
is revered by the young as the bearer of gifts on Christmas eve. 
The Dutch know him as Santa Claus (or Klaus). Irving alludes 
to him frequently in his humorous History of Neio York. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 33 

properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This 
name was given, we are told, in former days, by the 
good housewives of the adjacent country, from the 
inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about 
the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, 
I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it^ 
for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far 
from this village, perha|)s about two miles, there is a 
little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, 
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur 
enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional 
whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is 
almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the 
uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit 
in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees 
that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered 
into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly 
quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as 
it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was pro- 
longed and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever 
I should wish for a retreat ^ whither I might steal 
from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly 
away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none 
more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the pe- 
culiar character of its inhabitants, who are descend- 
ants from the original Dutch, settlers, this sequestered 
glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy 

1 Irving subsequently bought the little stone cottage where 
the Van Tassels were said to have lived, enlarged and improved 
it, and gave it the name of Sunnyside. Here he spent his declin- 
ing years, thus gratifying the wish implied in the text. 



34 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy 
Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country, 
A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the 
land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some say 
that the place was bewitched by a High German doc- 
tor, during the early days of the settlement ; others, 
that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his 
tribe, held his powwows there before the country was 
discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.^ Certain it 
is, the place still continues under the sway of some 
witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of 
the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous 
beliefs; are subject to trances and visions, and fre- 
quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices 
in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with 
local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; 
stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley 
than in any other part of the country, and the night- 
mare, with her whole ninefold,^ seems to make it the 
favorite scene of her gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief 
of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a fig- 
ure on horseback, without a head. It is said by some 
to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had 
been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless 
battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever 

1 More commonly known as Henry Hudson. He was an emi- 
nent English navigator, who, while seeking a northwest passage 
to India, discovered the river and the bay that bear his name, the 
former in 1609 and the latter in 1610. In 1611 a mutinous crew 
forced him and eight men into a small boat and abandoned them 
to their fate. They were never heard of afterwards. 

2 « He met the night-mare and her nine-fold." — King Lear. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 35 

and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in 
the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. 
His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend 
at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the 
vicinity of a church ^ at no great distance. Indeed, 
certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, 
who have been careful in collecting and collating the 
floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the 
body of the trooper having been buried in the church- 
yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in 
nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed 
with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, 
like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, 
and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before 
daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary super- 
stition, which has furnished materials for many a wild 
story in that region of shadows ; and the spectre is 
known at all the country firesides, by the name of the 
Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I 
have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabi- 
tants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by 
every one who resides there for a time. However wide 
awake they may have been before they entered that 
sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale 
the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow 
imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found 
here and there embosomed in the great State of New 
York, that population, manners, and customs remain 

^ This little Dutch church, which was built in 1699; is said to 
be still standing. 



36 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

fixed, while tlie great torrent of migration and im- 
provement, which is making such incessant changes 
in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see 
the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or 
slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed 
by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not 
still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 
Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tar- 
ried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing 
the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Con- 
necticut, a State which supplies the Union with pio- 
neers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends 
forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and coun- 
try schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not 
inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceed- 
ingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, 
hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
might have served for shovels, and his whole frame 
most loosely hung together. His head was small, and 
flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather- 
cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way 
the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile 
of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and 
fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for 
the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or 
some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 37 

His sclioolhouse was a low building of one large 
room, rudely constructed of logs ; tlie windows partly 
glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy^ 
books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant 
hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and 
stakes set against the window shutters ; so that though 
a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find 
some embarrassment in getting out, — an idea most 
probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Hou= 
ten, from the mystery of an eelpot.^ The schoolhouse 
stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at 
the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close 
by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of 
it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, 
conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy 
summer's day, like the hum of a beehive ; interrupted 
now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, 
in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, 
by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some 
tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. 
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever 
bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod and 
spoil the child." ^ Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly 
were not spoiled. 

1 would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy 
in the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he 
administered justice with discrimination rather than 

^ A trap for catching eels, its funnel-shaped aperture favoring" 
their entrance but thwarting their escape. 

2 The thought, but not the wording, is from the Bible, as the 
following quotations show : — 

" He that spareth his rod hateth his eon." — Prov. xiii. 24. 
" Love is a boy by poets styl'd ; 
Then spare the rod and spoil the child." — Butler's Hudibras. 



88 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

severity ; taking tlie burden off the backs of the 
weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your 
mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish 
of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the 
claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double 
portion on some little tough, wrong headed, broad- 
skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and 
grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this 
he called '^ doing his duty by their parents ; " and he 
never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, 
that '' he would remember it and thank him for it the 
longest day he had to live." 

^ hen school hours were over, he was even the com- 
panion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holi- 
day afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones 
home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good 
housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the 
cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good 
terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his 
school was. small, and would have been scarcely suffi- 
cient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a 
huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers 
of an anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, he 
was, according to country custom in those parts, 
boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers 
whose children he instructed. With these he lived 
successively a week at a time, thus going the rounds 
of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied 
up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses 
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs 
of schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as 
mere drones, he had various ways of rendering him- 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 39 

self both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farm- 
ers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, 
helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the 
horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and 
cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all 
the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which 
he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and be- 
came wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found 
favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the chil- 
dren, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion 
bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did 
hold,^ he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock 
a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the sing- 
ing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up many 
bright shillings by instructing the young folks in 
psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him 
on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church 
gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his 
own mind, he completely carried away the palm from 
the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far 
above all the rest of the congregation ; and there are 
peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and 
which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to 
the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday 
morning, which are said to be legitimately descended 

^ In the NeiD Englmid Primer, almost the only juvenile book 
in the early schools of this country, occurs the following rude 
couplet : — 

«' The Lion bold 
The Lamb doth hold." 

A coarse woodcut, representing a lion with his paw resting lov- 
ingly (!) on a lamb, accompanies the rhymes ; and the main 
object seems to be to impress indelibly on the learner's mind the 
letter L. 



40 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

from tiie nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers 
little makesbifts, in that ingenious way wbicb is com- 
monly denominated " by hook and by crook," the 
worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labor 
of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor- 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; 
being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike person- 
age, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to 
the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in 
learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- 
fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table 
of a farmhouse, and the addition of a supernumerary 
dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the pa- 
rade of a silver teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, 
was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the coun- 
try damsels. How he would figure among them in 
the churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gather- 
ing grapes for them from the wild vines that overran 
the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amusement 
all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, 
with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country 
bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half -itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house, so that his appearance 
was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, more- 
over, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudi- 
tion, for he had read several books quite through, and 
•was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's ^ " History of 

1 Cotton Mather was a New England clergyman, son of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 41 

New England ¥/itclicraft," in which, by the way, he 
most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewd- 
ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the mar- 
velous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally 
extraordinary ; and both had been increased by his 
residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too 
gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was 
often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover 
bordering the little brook that whimpered by his 
school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful 
tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the 
printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as 
he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful 
woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be 
quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching 
hour, fluttered his excited imagination, — the moan of 
the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry 
of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary 
hooting of the screech owl, to the sudden rustling in 
the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The 
fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the dark- 
est places, now and then startled him, as one of 
uncommon brightness would stream across his path ; 
and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came 
winging his blundering flight against him, the poor 
varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea 

Increase Mather and grandson of John Cotton. He was born in 
Boston in 1663, graduated at Harvard College in 1684, and 
ordained minister in Boston the same year. He was a diligent 
and prolific student, his various publications numbering nearly 
four hundred. Like most persons of his time, he believed in the 
existence of witches, and thought he was doing God's service in 
hunting them down. He died in 1728. 



42 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

tliat lie was struck with a witcli's token. His only 
resource on suck occasions, either to drown thought 
or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; 
and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by 
their doors of an evening, were often filled with awo 
at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness 
long drawn out," ^ floating from the distant hill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to 
pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as 
they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples 
roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen 
to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and 
haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the 
headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hol- 
low, as they sometimes called him. He would delight 
them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of 
the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in 
the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Con- 
necticut ; and would frighten them woefully with spec- 
ulations upon comets and shooting stars ; and with the 
alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn 
round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy I 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly 
cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was 
all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and 
where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it 
was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows 
beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of 
a snowy night ! With what wistful look did he eye 
every trembling ray of light streaming across the 
i From Milton's U Allegro. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 48 

waste fields from some distant window ! How often 
was lie appalled by some shrub cohered with snow, 
which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path ! 
How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the 
sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his 
feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he 
should behold some uncouth being tramping close 
behind him ! and how often was he thrown into 
complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling 
among the trees, in the idea that it was the Gralloping 
Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and 
though he had seen many spectres in his time, and 
been more than once beset by Satan ^ in divers shapes, 
in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end 
to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleas- 
ant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, 
if his path had not been crossed by a being that 
causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, 
goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, 
and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one 
evening in each week, to receive his instructions in 
psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and 
only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a 
blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; 
ripe and melting and rosy -cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for 
her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal 
a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in 

^ An allusion to the old and widespread belief that ghosts, 
goblins, and witches were the obedient subjects and emissaries 
of the Evil One. 



44 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

her dress, whicli was a mixture of ancient and modern 
fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She 
wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her 
great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saar- 
dam ; ^ the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and 
withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the 
prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards 
the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so 
tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more 
especially after he had visited her in her paternal 
mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect pic- 
ture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. 
He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his 
thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but 
within those everything was snug, happy and well-con- 
ditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not 
proud of it; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. 
His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hud- 
son, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A 
great elm tree spread its broad branches over it, at 
the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 
and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a bar- 
rel ; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, 
to a neighboring brook, that babbled along among 
alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse 
was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; 
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting 

^ Also known as Zaandam, a town of Holland about live miles 
from Amsterdam, historically famous as the place where Peter 
the Great of Russia worked as a shipwright and learned how 
to build ships. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 45 

forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail was 
busily resounding within it from morning to night ; 
swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the 
eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned 
up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads 
under their wings or buried in their bosoms, and 
others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their 
dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek 
unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and 
abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were rid- 
ing in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the farmyard, and Guinea fowls fretting about it, like 
ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discon- 
tented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing 
in the pride and gladness of his heart, — sometimes 
tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gener- 
ously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and chil- 
dren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discov- 
ered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In 
his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every 
roasting-pig running about with a pudding in his 
belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were 
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in 
with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in 
their ovv^n gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily in 
dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent com- 
petency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved 



46 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing 
ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, 
with its gizzard under its wing, and, perad venture, a 
necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanti- 
cleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, 
with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which 
his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, 
the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and 
Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy 
fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van 
Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to 
inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded 
with the idea, how they might be readily turned into 
cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of 
wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. 
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and 
presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole 
family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and ket- 
tles dangling beneath ; and he beheld himself bestrid- 
ing a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
out for Kentucky, Tennessee,^ — or the Lord knows 
where ! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his 
heart was complete. It was one of those spacious 
farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly sloping roofs, 
built in the style handed down from the first Dutch 
settlers ; the low projecting eaves forming a piazza 
along the front, capable of being closed up in bad 

1 At the time the Sketch Book, which contains the Legend of 
Sleepy Holloio, v^as published (1819), the far West that emi- 
grants made their goal was east of the Mississippi. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 47 

weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, vari- 
ous utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the 
neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides 
for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one 
end, and a churn at the other, showed the various uses 
to which this important porch might be devoted. 
From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the 
hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the 
place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent 
pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 
In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be 
spun ; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just 
from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of 
dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along 
the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and 
a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best parlor, 
where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany 
tables shone like mirrors ; andirons, with their accom- 
panying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
of asparagus tops ; mock - oranges and conch - shells 
decorated the mantelpiece ; strings of various-colored 
birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich 
Qg^ was hung from the centre of the room, and a cor- 
ner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense 
treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an 
end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of 
the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise^ 
however, he had more real difficulties than generally 
fell to the lot of a knight-errant of yore,^ who seldom 

^ A good type of the hero Irving had in mind may be found in 
Don Quixote, the wandering knight whom Spanish Cervantes im- 
mortalized in his inimitable Don Quixote de la Mancha (1605). 



48 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, 
and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend 
with j and had to make his way merely through gates 
of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle 
keep, where the lady of his . heart was confined ; all 
which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his 
way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; and then the 
lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Icha- 
bod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart 
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
and caprices, which were forever presenting new diffi- 
culties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a 
host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to 
her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon 
each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause 
against any new competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, 
roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, 
according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van 
Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang 
with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly 
black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant counte- 
nance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. 
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, 
he had received the nickname of Bkom Bones, by 
which he was universally known. He was famed for 
great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as 
dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost 
at all races and cock-fights ; and, with the ascendancy 
which bodily s|irength always acquires in rustic life, 
was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one 
side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 49 

admitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always 
ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but had more mis- 
chief than ill-will in his composition ; and with all his 
overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of 
waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or 
four boon companions, who regarded him as their 
model, and at the head of whom he scoured the coun-= 
try, attending every scene of feud or merriment for 
miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished 
by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; 
and when the folks at a country gathering descried 
this well-known crest at a distance, whisking about 
among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by 
for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard 
dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with 
whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks ; ^ and 
the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen 
for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, 
and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and 
his gang I '" The neighbors looked upon him with a 
mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will ; and, when 
any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the 
vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted 
Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out 
the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth 
gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were 
something like the gentle caresses and endearments of 

1 The Cossacks are restless and warlike Russian tribes^ of 
excellent sei^vice to the Russian army as scouts, skirmishers, and 
irregular cavalry. They are widely distributed over the empire, 
and are popularly known by their localities as the Cossacks of the 
river Don, of the Danube, of the Black Sea, of the Caucasus, 
and so on. 



60 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not alto- 
gether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad- 
vances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who 
felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; inso- 
much, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tas- 
sel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his 
master was courting, or, as it is termed, " sparking," 
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and car- 
ried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the 
competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. 
He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and 
perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit 
like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough; though he 
bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath 
the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — 
jerk ! — he was as erect, and carried his head as high 
as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival 
would have been madness ; for he was not a man to 
be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy 
lover, Achilles.^ Ichabod, therefore, made his ad- 
vances in a quiet and gently insinuating mannero 
Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he 
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome inter- 
ference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block 
in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, 

^ The most famous warrior of tlie Trojan War. The Iliad of 
Homer begins with the wrath of Achilles, in the tenth year of 
the war, because Agamemnon had taken from him Briseis, a 
beautiful captive, to whom he was strongly attached. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 51 

indulgent soul ; lie loved Ms daughter better even 
than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in everything. 
His notable little wife, too, liad enough to do to 
attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry; 
for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are fool- 
ish things, and must be looked after, but girls can 
take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame 
bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel 
at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smok- 
ing his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fight- 
ing the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
daughter by the side of the spring under the great 
elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so 
favorable to the lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are 
wooed and won. To me they have always been mat- 
ters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have 
but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while 
others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured 
in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph 
of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof 
of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for 
a man must battle for his fortress at every door and 
window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is 
therefore entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps 
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is in- 
deed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with 
the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment 
Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
former evidently declined : his horse was no longer 



52 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

seen tied to the palings on Sunday nights, and a 
deadly feud gradually arose between him and the pre- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open war- 
fare and have settled their pretensions to the lady, 
according to the mode of those most concise and sim- 
ple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore, — by single 
combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of the supe- 
rior might of his adversary to enter the lists against 
him ; he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he 
would " double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a 
shelf of his own schoolhouse ; " and he was too wary 
to give him an opportunity. There was something 
extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; 
it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the 
funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play 
off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod be- 
came the object of w^himsical persecution to Bones and 
his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto 
peaceful domains, smoked out his singing-school by 
stopping up the chimney, broke into the schoolhouse 
at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe 
and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, 
so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the 
witches in the country held their meetings there. But 
what was still more annoying, Brom took all opjDortu- 
nities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his 
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to 
whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced 
as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 
producing any material effect on the relative situa- 
tions of the contending powers. On a fine autumnal 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 58 

afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on 
the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the 
concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand 
he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; 
the birch of justice reposed on three nails behind the 
throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the 
desk before him might be seen sundry contraband 
articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the 
persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, 
popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of 
rampant little paper game-cockso Apparently there 
had been some appalling act of justice recently in- 
flicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon 
their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one 
eye kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing still- 
ness reigned throughout the schoolroom. It was sud- 
denly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in 
tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned frag- 
ment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted 
on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which 
he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came 
clattering up to the school-door v/ith an invitation to 
Ichabod to attend a merry - making or " quilting- 
frolic," -^ to be held that evening at Mynheer Yan 
Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that 
air of importance and effort at fine language which 
a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the 
kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scam- 
pering away up the Hollow, full of the importance 
and hurry of his mission. 

* "Now were instituted *qmlting-bees,' and * husking-bees,' 
and other rural assemblages, where, under the inspiring influ- 
ence of the fiddle, toil was enlivened by gayety and followed up 
by the dance." — Irving's History of New York. 



54 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through their 
lessons without stopping at trifles ; those who were 
nimble skipped over half with impunity, and those 
who were tardy had a smart application now and then 
in the rear, to quicken their speed or help them over 
a tall word. Books were flung aside without being 
put away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, 
benches thrown down, and the whole school was 
turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting 
forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racket- 
ing about the groen in joy at their early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra 
half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his 
best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arran- 
ging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass that 
hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his 
appearance before his mistress in the true style of a 
cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman 
of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly 
mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest 
of adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true 
spirit of romantic story, give some account of the 
looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The 
animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse, 
that had outlived almost everything but its vicious- 
ness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck, 
and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane and tail 
were tangled and knotted with burs ; one eye had lost 
its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other 
had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must 
have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge 
from the name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 55 

fact, been a favorite steed of liis master's, the choleric 
Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, 
very probably, some of his own spirit into the ani- 
mal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there 
was more of the lurking devil in him than in any 
young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees 
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp 
elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his 
whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and 
as his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was 
not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his 
scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the 
skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod 
and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of 
Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an 
apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad day- 
light. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day ; the sky 
was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and 
golden livery which we always associate with the idea of 
abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown 
and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 
been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, 
purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks 
began to make their appearance high in the air ; the 
bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of 
beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell ban- 
quets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, 



66 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

chirping and frolicking from bush to bush, and tree 
to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety 
around them. There was the honest cockrobin, the 
favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 
querulous note ; and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
sable clouds ; and the golden - winged woodpecker, 
with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and 
splendid plumage ; and the cedar-bird, with its red- 
tipt wings and yellow-tij)t tail and its little monteiro ^ 
cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, 
in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, 
screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing and 
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with 
every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever 
open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged 
with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On 
all sides he beheld vast store of apples : some hanging 
in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some gathered 
into baskets and barrels for the market ; others 
heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther 
on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its 
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and 
holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; 
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning 
up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breath- 
ing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft 
anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap-jacks, 

^ Same as montero (mon-ta'-ro), a horseman's or huntsman's 
cap, havmg a round crown with flaps which could be drawn 
down over the sides of the face. 

" His hat was like a helmet or Spanish montero." — BAcoif. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 57 

well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by 
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tas- 
sel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 
and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the 
sides of a range of hills which look out upon some 
of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The 
sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down in the 
west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay mo- 
tionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a 
gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds 
floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, chan- 
ging gradually into a pure apple green, and from that 
into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray 
lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater 
depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky 
sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping 
slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly 
against the mast ; and as the reflection of the sky 
gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the ves- 
sel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the 
castle of the Heer Yan Tassel, which he found thronged 
with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. 
Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun 
coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and 
magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered 
little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted short- 
gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin-cush- 
ions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. 
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, 



58 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps 
a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The 
sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stu- 
pendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued 
in the fashion of the times, especially if they could 
procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed 
throughout the country as a potent nourisher and 
strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, 
having come to the gathering on his favorite steed 
Daredevil, a creature, like himself, fall of mettle and 
mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. 
He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, 
given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in 
constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well- 
broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of 
charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my 
hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's 
mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with 
their luxurious display of red and white ; but the 
ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, 
in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up 
platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable 
kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! 
There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly- 
koek,^ and the crisp and crumbling cruller ; sweet 
cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, 
and the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides 
slices of ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delec- 

1 Pronounced o'-U-cook, from a Dutcli word that means oil- 
cake. A cake of dough sweetened and fried in lard, — some- 
thing like the cruller, but richer and tenderer. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 59 

table dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
pears, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and 
cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as 
I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — Hea- 
ven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to dis- 
cuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to 
get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was 
not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample 
justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some 
men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling 
his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with 
the possibility that he might one day be lord of all 
this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splen- 
dor. Then, he thought, how soon he 'd turn his back 
upon the old school-house ; snap his fingers in the 
face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly 
patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors 
that should dare to call him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his 
guests with a face dilated with content and good- 
humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His 
hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being 
confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoul- 
der, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall 
to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old gray-headed negro, who had been the itin- 
erant orchestra of the neighborhood for more than 



60 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

half a century. His instrument was as old and bat- 
tered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every 
movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bow- 
ing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot 
whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much 
as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre 
about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung 
frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, 
you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that 
blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you 
in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes; 
who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the 
farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid 
of shining black faces at every door and window; 
gazing with delight at the scene ; rolling their white 
eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory from 
ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be 
otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling gra- 
ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while 
Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, 
sat brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was at- 
tracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van 
Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossip- 
ing over former times, and drawing out long stories 
about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am 
speaking, was one of those highly favored places 
which abound with chronicle and great men. The 
British and American line had run near it during the 
war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 61 

and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of 
border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to 
enable each story-teller to dress up his tale with a lit- 
tle becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his 
recollection, to make himself the hero of every ex- 
ploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large 
blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a 
British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a 
mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth 
discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 
shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer ^ to be 
lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, 
being an excellent master of defence, parried a mus- 
ket-ball with a small-sword, insomuch that he abso- 
lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at 
the hilt ; in proof of which he was ready at any time 
to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There 
were several more that had been equally great in the 
field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had 
a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts 
and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is 
rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales 
and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, long- 
settled retreats ; but are trampled under foot by the 
shifting throng that forms the population of most of 
our country places. Besides, there is no encourage- 
ment for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have 
scarcely had time to finish their first nap and turn 

^ Pronounced min-liar^ Literally, my lord. It is the ordi- 
nary title of address among Dutchmen, corresponding to sir or 
Mr. in English use. Hence, a Dutchman. 



62 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

themselves in their graves, before their surviving 
friends have travelled away from the neighborhood ; 
so that when they turn out at night to walk their 
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. 
This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of 
ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communi- 
ties. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless 
owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a 
contagion in the very air that blew from that haunted 
region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams 
and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the 
Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonder- 
ful legends. Many dismal tales were told about fune- 
ral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and 
seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 
Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighbor- 
hood. Some mention was made also of the woman in 
white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and 
was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief 
part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite 
spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the Headless Horseman, 
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling 
the country; and, it was said, tethered his horse 
nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems 
always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled 
spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust- 
trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, 
whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 63 

gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of 
water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps 
may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To 
look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams 
seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at 
least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of 
the church extends a wide woody dell, along which 
raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks 
of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the 
stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown 
a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the 
bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging 
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day- 
time ; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. 
Such was one of the favorite haunts of the Headless 
Horseman, and the place where he was most frequently 
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a 
most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how lie met the 
Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hol- 
low, and was obliged to get up behind him ; how they 
galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, 
until they reached the bridge ; when the Horseman 
suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer 
into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops 
with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice 
marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light 
of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He 
affirmed that on returning one night from the neigh- 
boring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by 
this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 
with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it 
too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but 
just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian 
bolted, and vanished in a flasl^ of fire^ 



64 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the 
listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam 
from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of 
Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts 
from his invaluable author. Cotton Mather, and 
added many marvellous events that had taken place 
in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights 
which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy 
Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farm- 
ers gathered together their families in their wagons, 
and were heard for some time rattling along the hol- 
low roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the 
damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling 
with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they 
gradually died away, — and the late scene of noise and 
frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin- 
gered behind, according to the custom of country lov- 
ers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress; fully con- 
vinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to 
say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, 

I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly 
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air 
quite desolate and chapf alien. Oh, these women J 
these women ! Could that girl have been playing off 
any of her coquettish tricks? Was her encourage- 
ment of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
her conquest of his rival ? Heaven only knows, not 

II Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the 
air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 65 

than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the 
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on 
which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the 
stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused 
his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable 
quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming 
of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of 
timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night ^ that Icha- 
bod, heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travels 
homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which 
rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed 
so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal 
as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee spread 
its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at 
anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid- 
night, he could even hear the barking of the watch- 
dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it 
was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his 
distance from this faithful companion of man. Now 
and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acci- 
dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some 
farmhouse away among the hills — but it was like a 
dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred 
near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 
cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog 
from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfor- 
tably and turning suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his 
recollection. The night grew darker and darker ; the 

1 " 'T is now the very witching time of night 
When churchyards yawn." — Hamlet, 



66 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

stars seemed to sink deeper in tlie sky, and driving 
clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had 
never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, 
approaching the very place where many of the scenes 
of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of 
the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered 
like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbor- 
hood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were 
gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks 
for ordinary trees, twdsting down almost to the earth, 
and rising again into the air. It w^as connected with 
the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had 
been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally 
known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The 
common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate 
of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales 
of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told con- 
cerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began 
to whistle ; he thought his whistle was answered ; it 
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
branches. As he approached a little nearer, he 
thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst 
of the tree : he paused, and ceased whistling ; but, on 
looking more narrowly, perceived that it was a place 
where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the 
white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — - 
his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the 
saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough 
■upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils 
lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree, a smaU 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 67 

brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
tliickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's 
Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served 
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
road where the brook entered the wood, a group of 
oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, 
threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge 
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot 
that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under 
the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the 
sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This 
has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and 
fearful are the feelings of the school-boy who has to 
pass it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to 
thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, 
gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and 
attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but 
instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot : it was all in vain ; his 
steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to 
the opposite side of the road into a thicket of bram- 
bles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now be- 
stowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of 
old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with 
a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by 
the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Icha- 
bod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin 
of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, 



68 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up 
in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to 
spring upon the traveller. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn 
and fly was now too late ; and besides, what chance 
was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, 
which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? Sum- 
moning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded 
in stammering accents, " Who are you ? " He re- 
ceived no reply. He repeated his demand in a still 
more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. 
Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the 
shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with 
a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle 
of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, 
yet the form of the unknown might now in some 
degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horse- 
man of large dimensions, and mounted on a black 
horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of moles- 
tation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the 
road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gun- 
powder, who had now got over his fright and way- 
wardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange mid- 
night companion, and bethought himself of the adven- 
ture of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now 
quickened his steed in hopes of leaving him behind. 
The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an 
equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
thinking to lag behind, — the other did the same. His 
heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 69 

resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove 
to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a 
stave. There was something in the moody and 
dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that 
was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which, 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a 
cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that 
he was headless ! but his horror was still more in- 
creased on observing that the head, which should 
have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him 
on the pommel of his saddle ! His terror rose to des- 
peration ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon 
Gunpowder, hoping by a sudden movement to give 
his companion the slip ; but the spectre started full 
jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through 
thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 
the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over 
his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos- 
sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made 
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to 
the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, 
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where 
it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ; and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his un- 
skilful rider an apparent advantage in -the chase ; but 
just as he had got half way through the hollow, the 
girths o£ the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping 



70 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and 
endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just 
time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder 
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and 
he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For 
a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath 
passed across his mind, — for it was his Sunday sad- 
dle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin 
was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that 
he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; some- 
times slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and 
sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back- 
bone, with a violence that he verily feared would 
cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The 
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom 
of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. 
He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under 
the trees beyond. He recollected the place where 
Brom Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. 
" If I can but reach that bridge," ^ thought Ichabod, 
" I am safe." Just then he heard the black steed 
panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fan- 
cied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive 
kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the 
bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he 

^ It was a superstitious belief that witches could not cross the 
middle of a stream. In Burus's tale of Tarn O'Shanter the hero 
is represented as urging his horse to gain the keystone of the 
bridge so as to escape the hotly pursuing witches : — 

" Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the keystane of the brig : 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, — 
A ruimiug stream they dare not cross I " 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 71 

gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod east a look 
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according 
to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then 
he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the 
very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeav- 
ored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It 
encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash, — 
he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gun- 
powder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed 
by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without 
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 
cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did 
not make his appearance at breakfast ; dinner-hour 
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the 
schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the 
brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now 
began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor 
Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his 
traces. In one part of the road leading to the 
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; 
the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the 
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of 
the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was 
found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, 
as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which 
contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of 
two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair 
or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy 



72 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

small-elothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes 
full of dog's-ears ; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to 
the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they be- 
longed to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's 
History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and 
a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last 
was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in 
several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in 
honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned 
to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who, from that 
time forward, determined to send his children no more 
to school; observing that he never knew any good 
come of this same reading and writing. Whatever 
money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received 
his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have 
had about his person at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at 
the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers 
and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the 
bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin 
had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, 
and a whole budget of others were called to mind ; 
and when they had diligently considered them all, and 
compared them with the symptoms of the present case, 
they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion 
that Ichabod had been carried off by the Galloping 
Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's 
debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him ; 
the school was removed to a different quarter of the 
Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to 
New York on a visit several years after, and from 
whom this account of the ghostly adventure was re- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 73 

ceived, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod 
Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighbor- 
hood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van 
Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been sud- 
denly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed 
his quarters to a distant part of the country; had 
kept school and studied law at the same time ; had 
been admitted to the bar ; turned politician ; election- 
eered ; written for the newspapers ; and finally had 
been made a justice of the ten pound court.^ Brom 
Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappear- 
ance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to 
the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing 
whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always 
burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pump- 
kin ; which led some to suspect that he knew more 
about the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that 
Ichabod w^as spirited away by supernatural means; 
and it is a favorite story often told about the neigh- 
borhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge 
became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; 
and that may be the reason why the road has been 
altered of late years, so as to approach the church by 
the border of the mill-pond. The schoolhouse being 
deserted soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; 
and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still sum- 
mer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, 
chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil 
solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 

^ A court of justice authorized to deal with cases in which the 
amount of money involved does not exceed ten pounds. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

FOUND IN" THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding tale is given almost in tlie precise 
words in which I heard it related at a Corporation 
meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes,^ at 
which were present many of its sagest and most illus- 
trious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with 
a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly sus- 
pected of being poor, — he made such efforts to be 
entertaining. When his story was concluded there 
was much laughter and approbation, particularly from 
two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep 
the greater part of the time. There was, however, 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face 
throughout ; now and then folding his arms, inclining 
his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turn- 
ing a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your 
wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds, 
— when they have reason and the law on their sideo 
When the mirth of the rest of the company had sub- 
sided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on 
the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion 

1 The city of New York, as it is named in Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker's (Irving' s) History of New York, 



POSTSCRIPT. 75 

of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was 
the moral of the story, and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of 
wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, 
paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an 
air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly 
to the table, observed that the story was intended 
most logically to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its ad- 
vantages and pleasures, provided we will but take a 
joke as we find it ; 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin 
troopers is likely to have rough riding of it ; 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused 
the hand of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high 
preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by 
the ratiocination of the syllogism ; while, methought, 
the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something 
of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that 
all this was very well, but still he thought the story 
a little on the extravagant ; there were one or two 
points on which he had his doubts. 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, " as to that 
matter, I don't believe one half of it myself." 

D. K 



76 WASHINGTON IRVING. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

" Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head." 

Gaerick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide 
world which he can truly call his own, there is a 
momentary feeling of something like independence 
and territorial consequence when, after a weary day's 
travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into 
slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. 
Let the world without go as it may ; let kingdoms 
rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay 
his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch 
of all he surveys. The armchair is his throne, the 
poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve 
feet square, his undisputed empire.^ It is a morsel 
of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncer- 
tainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out 
kindly on a cloudy day : and he who has advanced 
some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the 
importance of husbanding even morsels and moments 
of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine 

^ Visitors are still shown the chair in which Irving sat, at the 
Red Horse Hotel, and the poker with which he poked the fire ! 
Irving writes to his sister on the occasion of his second visit, in 
1832 : " We were quartered at the little inn of the Red Horse, 
where I found the same obliging little landlady that kept it at the 
time of the visit [1815] recorded in the Sketch-Book. You cannot 
imagine what a fuss the little woman made when she found out 
who I was. She showed me the room I had occupied, in which 
she had hung up my engraved likeness, and she produced a poker 
which was locked up in the archives of her house, on which she 
had caused to be engraved * Geoffrey Crayon's sceptre.' " 



A 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 77 

inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back 
in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about 
the little parlor of the Ked Horse, at Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from 
the tower of the church in which he lies buried. 
There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty 
chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, 
with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- 
stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. 
My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; so 
abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to 
avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide- 
Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went 
to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the 
jubilee,^ and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening 
mornings which we sometimes have in early spring, 
for it was about the middle of March. The chills 
of a long winter had suddenly given way ; the north 
wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came 
stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life 
into nature, and wooing every bud and flower to 
burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. 
My first visit was to the house where Shakspeare 
was born,^ and where, according to tradition, he was 
brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. It 
is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, 

^ Garrick originated the jubilee which was held in 1769, and 
which lasted three days. 

^ This house became the property of the British nation in 
1847. 



78 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to de- 
light in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The 
walls of its squalid chambers are covered with names 
and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all 
nations, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the 
peasant, and present a simple but striking instance 
of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind 
to the great poet of nature.^ 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in 
a frosty red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious 
eye, and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, 
curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She 
was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with 
which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. 
There was the shattered stock of the very match-lock 
with which Shaksjoeare shot the deer, on his poaching 
exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box, which 
proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter 
Raleigh ; the sword, also, with which he played 
Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar 
Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! 
There was an ample supply, also, of Shakspeare's 
mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary 
powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true 
cross, of which there is enough extant to build a ship 
of the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook 

^ Irving added liis name to the motley collection, writing 
these four lines, and signing them, " Washington Irving. Sec- 
ond visit, October, 1821." 

" Of mighty Shakspeare's birth the room we see, 
That where he died in vain to find we try ; 
Useless the search — for all immortal he, 
And those who are immortal never die." 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 79 

of a small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his 
father's shop. Here he may many a time have sat 
when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with 
all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening listen- 
ing to the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealing 
forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of 
the troublesome times of Ens^land. In this chair it 
is the custom of every one that visits the house to 
sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing 
any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to 
say ; I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess 
privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
such was the fervent zeal of devotees, the chair had 
to be new bottomed at least once in three years. It 
is v.^orthy of notice also, in the history of this ex- 
traordinary chair, that it partakes something of the 
volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto,^ or the 
flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for though 
sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the 
old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and 
am ever willing to be deceived, where the deceit is 
pleasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready 
believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of gob- 
lins and great men ; and would advise all travellers 
who travel for their gratification to be the same. 
What is it to us, whether these stories be true or 
false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into the 
belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality ? 
There is nothing like resolute good-humored credulity 

^ The legend runs that the house in which the Virgin was 
born was carried by angels from Nazareth, in 1295, to Loretto, 
in Italy. 



80 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so 
far as willingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to 
a lineal descent from the poet, when, luckily, for my 
faith, she put into my hands a play of her own com- 
position, which set all belief in her consanguinity at 
defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakspeare a few paces 
brought me to his grave. He lies buried in the chan- 
cel of the parish church, a large and venerable pile, 
mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It 
stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the 
suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and re- 
tired: the river runs murmuring at the foot of the 
churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks 
droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue 
of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, 
so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, 
leads up from the gate of the yard to the church 
porch. The graves are overgrown with grass ; the 
gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise 
tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have 
built their nests among the cornices and fissures of 
the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirp- 
ing ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty 
gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray- 
headed sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home 
to get the key of the church. He had lived in Strat- 
ford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still 
to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial 
exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs 
for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage, 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 81 

looking out upon the Avon and its bordering mead- 
ows ; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and 
comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this 
country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone 
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, 
and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glit- 
tered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well 
rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer- 
book, and the drawer contained the family library, 
composed of about half a score of well-thumbed vol- 
umes. An ancient clock, that important article of 
cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the 
room ; with a bright warming-pan hanging on one 
side of it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday 
cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was wide 
and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaugh- 
ter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the oppo- 
site corner was a superannuated crony, whom he ad- 
dressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, 
had been his companion from childhood. They had 
played together in infancy ; they had worked together 
in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gos- 
siping away the evening of life ; and in a short time 
they will probably be buried together in the neigh- 
boring churchyard. It is not often that we see two 
streams of existence running thus evenly and tran- 
quilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet "bosom 
scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes 
of the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they 
had nothing new to impart. The long interval dur- 
ing which Shakspeare's writings lay in comparative 
neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; and 



82 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

it is his good or evil lot tliat scarcely anything 
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of 
conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed 
as carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated 
Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the 
prime mover of the fete, who superintended the ar- 
rangements, and who, according to the sexton, was 
" a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John 
Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's 
mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket 
for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights 
speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows 
the Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head 
when I mentioned her valuable collection of relics, 
particularly her remains of the mulberry-tree ; and 
the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shak- 
speare having been born in her house. I soon dis- 
covered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil 
eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having 
comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that histo- 
rians differ at the very outset, and mere pebbles make 
the stream of truth diverge into different channels 
even at the fountain head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of 
limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly orna- 
mented, with carved doors of massive oak. The in- 
terior is spacious, and the architecture and embellish- 
ments superior to those of most country churches. 
There are several ancient monuments of nobility and 
gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, 
and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. The 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 83 

tomb of Shakspeare is in tlie chancel. The place is 
solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the 
pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short 
distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual 
murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard 
is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said 
to have been written by himself, and which have in 
them something extremely awful. If they are indeed 
his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet o£ 
the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities 
and thoughtful minds. 

"Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones." 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a 
bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, 
and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is plea- 
sant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I 
thought I coi*ld read in it clear indications of that 
cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much 
characterized among his contemporaries as by the 
vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his 
age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years; an 
untimely death for the world : for what fruit might 
not have been expected from the golden autumn of 
such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vi- 
cissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of 
popular and royal favor. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been 
without its effect. It has prevented the removal of 
his remains from the bosom of his native place to 
Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- 



84 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

plated.^ A few years since, also, as some laborers 
were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth 
caved in, so as to leave a vacant space almost like an 
arch, through which one might have reached into his 
grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with 
his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and 
lest any of the idle or the curious, or any collector 
of relics, should be tempted to commit depreda- 
tions, the old sexton kept watch over the place for 
two days, until the vault was finished and the aper- 
ture closed again. He told me that he had made 
bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin 
nor bones; nothing but dust. It was something, I 
thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old 
friend John Combe of usurious memory ; on whom 
he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There 
are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to 
dwell on anything that is not connected with Shak- 
speare. His idea pervades the place ; the whole pile 
seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in per- 
fect confidence : other traces of him may be false or 
dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute 
certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, there 
was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, 
in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare were moul- 
dering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I 

^ The reader will find an interesting sketch by Hawthorne in 
Our Old Home, entitled " Recollections of a Gifted Woman," 
which narrates one futile attempt to examine Shakspeare's 
grave. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 85 

could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; and as 
I passed through the churchyard, I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have 
brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's 
devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat 
of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through 
the park where Shakspeare, in company with some 
of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful 
offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit 
we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to 
the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in 
doleful captivity. When brought into the presence 
of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been 
galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his 
spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, which was 
affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.^ 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the 
knight so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer 
at Warwick to put the severity of the laws in force 
against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare did 
not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight 
of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his 
paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became 

^ The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — 

** A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
He thinks himself great ; 
Yet an asse in his state, 
We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it." W. L 



86 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, 
finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the 
persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an 
indifferent wool-comber, and the world gained an im- 
mortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, 
a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charle= 
cot, and revenged himself in his writings ; but in the 
sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is 
said to be the original Justice Shallow, and the satire 
is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial 
bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white 
luces ^ in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biogra- 
phers to soften and explain away this early transgres- 
sion of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those 
thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn 
of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all 
the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisci- 
plined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. 
When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and 
delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is 
often a turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of 
fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great 
rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakspeare's 
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dra- 
matic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when run- 
ning, like an unbroken colt, about the neighborhood 
of Stratford, he was to be found in the company of 
all kinds of odd anomalous characters ; that he asso- 

^ The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
, Charlecot. W. I. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 87 

dated with all tlie madcaps of the place, and was one 
of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old 
men shake their heads, and predict that they will one 
day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in 
Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray 
to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and, as 
yet untamed, imagination, as something delightfully 
adventurous.^ 

1 A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his 
youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked 
up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his 
Picturesque Views on the Avon, 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little 
market town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of 
the village yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the 
Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the 
neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, 
the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of 
their heads ; and in the number of the champions was Shak- 
speare, who, in spite of the proverb that " they who drink beer 
will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. 
The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and 
sounded a retreat while they had yet legs to carry them off the 
field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs fail- 
ing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where 
they passed the night. It is still standing, and goes by the 
name of Shakspeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and pro- 
posed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had 
enough, having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing" Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the 
epithets thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still 
famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor ; Hilborough is now 
called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton is famous for the 
poverty of its soil." W. I. 



88 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, 
and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected 
with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the 
scanty history of the bard. As the house stood but 
little more than three miles' distance from Stratford, 
I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might 
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest 
ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but Eng- 
lish scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change 
in the temperature of the weather was surprising in 
its quickening effects upon the landscape. It was 
inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening 
of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the 
senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to 
put forth the green sprout and the tender blade : and 
the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and burst- 
ing buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and 
flower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on 
the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste 
white blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- 
tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was 
faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered 
about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the 
robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous 
wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the 
reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the 
bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. 
As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher 
and higher, until his body was a mere speck on the 
white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's exqui- 
site little song in " Cymbeline : " — 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 89 

" Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 
And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 
On chaliced flowers that lies. 

" And winking mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes ; 
With every thing that pretty bin, 
My lady sweet arise \ " 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic 
ground : everything is associated with the idea of 
Shakspeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fan- 
cied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had 
acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and 
manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild 
superstitions which he has woven like witchcraft 
into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was 
a popular amusement in winter evenings " to sit 
round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, 
queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, 
cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." ^ 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the 
Avon, which made a variety of the most fancy dou- 
blings and windings through a wide and fertile val- 
ley ; sometimes glittering from among willows, which 
fringed its borders ; sometimes disappearing among 
groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes ram- 

^ Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of 
these fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull- 
beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, 
pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, 
dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, 
incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in 
the oke, the hell-waine, the fier-drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, 
hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that 
we were afraid of our own shadows." W. I. 



90 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

bling out into full view, and making an azure sweep 
round a slope of meadow land. This beautiful bosom 
of country is called tlie Vale of the Ked Horse. A 
distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its 
boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape 
lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I 
turned off into a footpath, which led along the bor- 
ders of fields, and under hedgerows to a private gate 
of the park ; there was a stile, however, for the ben- 
efit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of 
way through the grounds. I delight in these hospita- 
ble estates, in which every one has a kind of property 
— at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in 
some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, 
what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to 
have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his 
recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely, and 
lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the lord of 
the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all 
that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks 
and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of 
centuries. The wind sounded solemnly among their 
branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary 
nests in the treetops. The eye ranged through a 
long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking 
like a snadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues- 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 
from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 91 

bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having 
had their origin in a period of time with which we 
associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
also the long-settled dignity, and proudly concentrated 
independence of an ancient family ; and I have heard 
a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when 
speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, 
that " money could do much with stone and mortar, 
but, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as sud- 
denly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this 
rich scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the 
adjoining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a 
part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's 
commentators have supposed he derived his noble 
forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting wood- 
land pictures in " As You Like It." It is in lonely 
wanderings through such scenes, that the mind drinks 
deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes 
intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. 
The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture; 
vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking 
upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incom- 
municable luxury of thought. It was in some such 
mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees 
before me, which threw their broad shades over the 
grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that 
the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little 
song which breathes the very soul of a rural volup- 
tuary : — 

" Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note. 



92 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather." 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a 
large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in 
the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having 
been built in the first year of her reign. The exterior 
remains very nearly in its original state, and may be 
considered a fair specimen of the residence of a 
wealthy country gentleman of those days, A great 
gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard 
in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, 
shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation 
of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of outpost, and 
flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere orna- 
ment, instead of defence. The front of the house is 
completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted case- 
ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and 
a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in 
stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon 
tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 
bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large 
herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its 
borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its 
bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, 
I called to mind Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shal- 
low's abode, and the affected indifference and real 
vanity of the latter : — 

" Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
Shallow. Barren, harren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all. 
Sir John : — marry, good air." 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 93 

What may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of 
stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway that 
opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no 
show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat, 
stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards the 
stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must 
not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow 
which I saw suspended against the barn wall, as it 
shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhor- 
rence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exercise 
of territorial power, which was so strenuously mani- 
fested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length 
found my way to a lateral portal, which was the 
every-day entrance to the mansion. I was courteously 
received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the 
civility and communicativeness of her order, showed 
me the interior of the house. The greater part has 
undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern 
tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken 
staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an 
ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appear- 
ance it must have had in the days of Shakspeare. 
The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end is 
a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons 
and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned 
the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for 
family portraits. There is a wide hospitable fireplace, 
calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, for- 
merly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the 



94 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- 
window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the 
courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the 
armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many gener- 
ations, -some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by 
which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified 
with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in 
the first scene of the "Merry Wives of Windsor," 
where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having 
" beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his 
lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself 
and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may 
suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous 
indignation of Sir Thomas. 

" Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star- 
Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he 
shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and 
coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, mas- 
ter parson ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, 
quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three 
hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and 
all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the 
dozen white luces in their coat. . . . 

Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no 
fear of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear 
the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in 
that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it ! " 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 95 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait 
by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great 
beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old 
housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the pic- 
ture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly 
addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great por- 
tion of the family estate, among which was that part 
of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades had 
killed the deer. The lands thus lost had not been 
entirely regained by the family even at the present 
day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to con- 
fess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was 
a great painting over the fireplace, containing like- 
nesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who in- 
habited the hall in the latter part of Shakspeare's 
lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive 
knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that 
it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former 
being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the 
neighboring hamlet of Charlecot.^ The picture gives 

1 This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in 
complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on 
her tomb is the following inscription ; which, if really composed 
by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of 
Master Shallow : — 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of 
Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir 
of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire 
who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly king- 
dom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 
and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true 
and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any 
cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband 
most faythful and true. In friendship most constant ; to what 
in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom ex- 



96 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. 
Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; white 
shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, 
or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored 
beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of 
the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the 
children have a most venerable stiffness and formality 
of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the 
family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the 
foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; — 
all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, 
and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days.^ 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the 
hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with 

celling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in 
ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singu- 
lar. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her 
betters ; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When all is 
spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with virtue as 
not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee 
lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by 
him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be true. 

" Thomas Lucye." W. I. 
1 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his 
time, observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different 
families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels ; 
and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. 
A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceed- 
ingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his 
fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a 
Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run 
buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds 
both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly 
strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, 
spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay 
some of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." W. I. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 97 

the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the 
country squire of former days was wont to sway the 
sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in 
which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas 
sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shak- 
speare was brought before him. As I like to deck 
out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased my- 
self with the idea that this very hall had been the 
scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- 
ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to my- 
self the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard 
of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, with 
their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought 
in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of game- 
keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by 
a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright 
faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half- 
opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daugh- 
ters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing 
the youthful prisoner with that pity " that dwells in 
womanhood." — -Who would have thought that this 
poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority 
of a country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was 
soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of 
all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind, 
and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a 
caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the 
garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and 
arbor where the Justice treated Sir John Falstaff and 
Cousin Silence "to a last year's pippin of his own 
grafting, with a dish of caraways ; " but I had already 
spent so much of the day in my ramblings that I was 
obliged to give up any further investigations. When 



9& WASHINGTON IRVING. 

about to take my leave I was gratified by the civil 
entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would 
take some refreshment : an instance of good old hos- 
pitality which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters sel- 
dom meet with in modern days, I make no doubt it 
is a virtue which the present representative of the 
Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, 
even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow impor- 
tunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instances 
to Falstaff. 

" By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night. ... I 
will not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not 
be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be 
excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of short-legged 
hens ; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, 
tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. 
My mind had become so completely possessed by the 
imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, 
that I seemed to be actually living among them. 
Everything brought them, as it were, before my eyes ; 
and as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost 
expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
quavering forth his favorite ditty : — 

" 'T is merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect 
on the singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to 
spread the magic of his mind over the very face of 
nature ; to give to things and places a charm and 
character not their own, and to turn this " working- 
day world " into a perfect fairyland. He is indeed 
the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon 
the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON, 99 

Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been 
walking all day in a complete delusion. I had sur- 
veyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, 
which tinged every object with the hues of the rain- 
bow. I had been surrounded with fancied beings ; 
with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; 
yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had 
heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld 
the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring 
through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once 
more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his 
contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down 
to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne 
Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the 
bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life 
with innocent illusions ; who has spread exquisite 
and unbought pleasures in my checkered path ; and 
beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, with all 
the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my 
return, I paused to contemplate the distant church in 
which the poet lies buried, and could not but exult in 
the malediction, which has kept his ashes undisturbed 
in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could 
his name have derived from being mingled in dusty 
companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and 
venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What would 
a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 
compared with this reverend pile, which seems to 
stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! 
The solicitude about the grave may be but the off- 
spring of an over-wrought sensibility ; but human 
nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its 

best and tenderest affections are mingled with these 

L.efC. 



100 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about 
the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no 
admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that 
which springs up in his native place. It is there that 
he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among his 
kindred and his early friends. And when the weary 
heart and failing head begin to warn him that the 
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as 
does the infant to the mother's arms, to sink to sleep 
in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubt- 
ful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal 
home, could he have foreseen that, before many years, 
he should return to it covered with renown ; that his 
name should become the boast and glory of his native 
place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded 
as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening 
spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful contem- 
plation, should one day become the beacon, towering 
amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary 
pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 101 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 
A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Deummond of Hawthornden.i 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, 
in which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, 
and seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our 
reveries and build our air castles undisturbed. In such 
a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of 
Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wander- 
ing thought which one is apt to dignify with the name 
of reflection ; when suddenly an interruption of mad- 
cap boys from Westminster School, playing at foot- 
ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, 
making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs 
echo with their merriment. I sought to take refuge 
from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the 
solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the ver- 
gers for admission to the library. He conducted me 
through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture 
of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage 
leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which 
Doomsday Book ^ is deposited. Just within the passage 

^ William Drummond, a Scottish poet of some celebrity, was 
born at Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, in 1585, and died in 
1649. 

^ Doomsday (or Domesday) Book, so called because its au- 
thority was final, contains a summary of the results of a sta- 



102 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied 
a key; it was double locked, and opened with some 
difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a 
dark narrow staircase, and, passing through a second 
door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof 
supported by massive joists of old English oak. It 
was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a 
considerable height from the floor, and which ap- 
parently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An 
ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church 
in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall 
and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in 
carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of 
old polemical writers, and were much more worn by 
time than use. In the centre of the library was a 
solitary table with two or three books on it, an ink- 
stand without ink, and a few pens parched by long 
disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the 
massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the 
tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then 
the shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from the 
cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, 
echoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By 
degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and 
fainter, and at length died away ; the bell ceased to 
toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky 
hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated 

tistical survey of England, made under William the Conqueror 
in 1085-86. It records the ownership, extent, and value of land, 
the number of tenants, the amount of live stock, etc. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 103 

myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. In- 
stead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the sol- 
emn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place into 
a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old 
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the 
shelves, and apparently never disturbed in their re- 
pose, I could not but consider the library a kind of 
literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are 
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in 
dustv oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some 
aching head ! how many weary days ! how many sleep- 
less nights I How have their authors buried them- 
selves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; shut 
themselves up from the face of man, and the still 
more blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves 
to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for 
what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the 
title of their works read now and then in a future 
age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler 
like myself ; and in another age to be lost, even to 
remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted 
immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound ; 
like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among 
these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering 
transiently in echo — and then passing away like a 
thing that was not I 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these 
unprofitable speculations, with my head resting on my 
hand, I was thrumming with the other hand upon the 
quarto, until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when, 
to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two 
or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; 



104 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

then a husky hem ; and at length began to talk. At 
first its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much 
troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had 
woven across it ; and having probably contracted a 
cold from long exposure to the chills and damps of the 
abbey. In a short time, however, it became more dis- 
tinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent 
conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was 
rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what, 
in the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; but 
I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in 
modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the 
world — about merit being suffered to languish in 
obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of lit- 
erary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not 
been opened for more than two centuries ; that the 
dean only looked now and then into the library, 
sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with 
them for a few moments, and then returned them to 
their shelves. " What a plague do they mean," said 
the little quarto, which I began to perceive was some- 
what choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keep- 
ing several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties 
in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by 
the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and 
to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that 
the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a 
year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once 
in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster 
among us, that at any rate we may now and then have 
an airing." 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, " you are not 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 105 

aware how much better you are off than most books 
of your generation. By being stored away in this 
ancient library, you are like the treasured remains of 
those saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the 
adjoining chapels ; while the remains of your contem- 
porary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, 
have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and 
looking big, " I was written for all the world, not for 
the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circu- 
late from hand to hand, like other great contemporary 
works ; but here have I been clasped up for more than 
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey 
to these worms that are playing the very vengeance 
with my intestines, if you had not by chance given 
me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before 
I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left 
to the circulation of which you speak, you would long 
ere this have been no more. To judge from your physi- 
ognomy, you are now well stricken in years : very few 
of your contemporaries can be at present in existence ; 
and those few owe their longevity to being immured 
like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, 
instead of likening to harems, you might more pro- 
perly and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries 
attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of 
the old and decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering 
and no employment, they often endure to an amaz- 
ingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your con- 
temporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet 
with their works ? what do we hear of Robert Gros- 
teste,^ of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder 

1 Robert Grosseteste (as the name is generally spelled) was 
elected Bishop of Lincoln in 1235, and died in 1253. 



106 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

than he for immortality. He is said to have written 
nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a 
pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! 
the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few 
fragments are scattered in various libraries, where 
they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. 
What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis,^ the histo- 
rian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? 
He declined two bishoprics, that he might shut him- 
self up and write for posterity ; but posterity never 
inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Hunt- 
ingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, 
wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which 
the world has revenged by forgetting him ? What is 
quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his 
age in classical composition ? Of his three great he- 
roic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag- 
ment ; the others are known only to a few of the curi- 
ous in literature ; and as to his love verses and epi- 
grams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in 
current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who ac- 
quired the name of the tree of life ? Of William of 
Malmesbury ; — of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict 
of Peterborough ; — of John Hanvill of St. Albans ; — 

of " 

" Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
" how old do you think me ? You are talking of au- 
thors that lived long before my time, and wrote either 
in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatri- 
ated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten ; ^ but 

"^ Gerald de Barry, born in "Wales about 1146, died about 
1220. All the other writers mentioned in the same paragraph 
belong to the twelfth century. 

^ " In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 107 

I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of 
the renowned Wynkin de Worde.^ I was written in 
my own native tongue, at a time when the language 
had become fixed ; and indeed I was considered a 
model of pure and elegant English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched 
in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have 
had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern 
phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your 
age ; but it matters little : almost all the writers of 
your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness ; 
and De Worde's publications are mere literary rari- 
ties among book-collectors. The purity and stability 
of language, too, on which you found your claims to 
perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of au- 
thors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy 
Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes 
of mongrel Saxon.^ Even now many talk of Spenser's 

great delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, 
but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, 
of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as 
we have in hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe." — (Quoted by 
Irving from Chaucer's Testament of Love.) 

^ An English printer who was an assistant, and afterward the 
successor, of William Caxton. He died about 1535. 

2 Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " Afterwards, also, by 
deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time 
of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John 
Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an 
excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the 
type of perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein 
John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned 
and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of 
the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation." — 
W.I. 



108 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

* well of pure English undefiled,' ^ as if the language 
ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, and was 
not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, per- 
petually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is 
this which has made English literature so extremely 
mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. 
Unless thought can be committed to something more 
permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, 
even thought must share the fate of everything else, 
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check 
upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular 
writer. He finds the language in which he has em- 
barked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the 
dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He 
looks back and beholds the early authors of his coun- 
try, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by 
modern writers. A few short ages have covered them 
with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished 
by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he 
anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, 
however it may be admired in its day, and held up as 
a model of purity, will in the course of years grow 
antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall become almost 
as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian 
obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions said to exist 
in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with 
some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library, 
filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gild- 
ing and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; 
like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, 

^ The phrase here quoted, inexactly, comes from Spenser's 
Faerie Queene, Book IV, canto ii, stanza 32 : — 

" Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled, 
On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled." 



m 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 109 

pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and 
reflected that in one hundred years not one of them 
would be in existence ! " 

" Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " I 
see how it is ; these modern scribblers have super- 
seded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is 
read nowadaj^s but Sir Philip Sidney's ' Arcadia,' 
Sackville's stately plays and ' Mirror for Magis- 
trates,' or the finespun euphuisms of the ' unparal- 
leled John Lyly.' " i 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the 
writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they 
happened to be so when you were last in circulation, 
have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's 
' Arcadia,' the immortality of which was so fondly 
predicted by his admirers,^ and which, in truth, is full 
of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns 
of language, is now scarcel};' ever mentioned. Sack- 
ville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, 

^ Sir Philip Sidney, an English author and general, was born 
in 1554, and mortally wounded at the battle of Zutphen, in 
1586. His Arcadia, a pastoral romance, was long very popular. 
Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was born in 1536, and died 
at London in 1608. For Lyly, see page 1. 

2 " Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle 
witt, and the golden-pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify 
unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, 
the breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers 
of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the 
arme of Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, 
the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in 
print." — (Quoted by Irving from Harvey's Piercers Superero- 
gation,') 

Piercers Supererogation was written in 1593 by Gabriel Har- 
vey, as part of a long and bitter controversy with Thomas Nash, 
the dramatist. 



110 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

though his writings were once the delight of a court, 
and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now 
scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of 
authors who wrote and wrangled at the time have 
likewise gone down, with all their writings and their 
controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding litera- 
ture has rolled over them, until they are buried so 
deep, that it is only now and then that some industri- 
ous diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a 
specimen for the gratification of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mu- 
tability of language a wise precaution of Providence 
for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors 
in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily be- 
hold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables 
springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a 
short time, and then fading into dust, to make way 
for their successors. Were not this the case, the 
fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a 
blessing. The earth would groan with rank and ex- 
cessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled 
wilderness. In like manner the works of genius and 
learning decline, and make way for subsequent pro- 
ductions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade 
away the writings of authors who have flourished their 
allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of genius 
would overstock the world, and the mind would be 
completely bewildered in the endless mazes of litera- 
ture. Formerly there were some restraints on this ex- 
cessive multiplication. Works, had to be transcribed 
by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation ; 
they were written either on parchment, which was ex- 
pensive, so that one work was often erased to make 
way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. Ill 

and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited 
and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in 
the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accu- 
mulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and 
confined almost entirely to monasteries. To these 
circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that 
we have not been inundated by the intellect of an- 
tiquity ; that the fountains of thought have not been 
broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. 
But the inventions of paper and the press have put 
an end to all these restraints. They have made every 
one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself 
into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual 
world. The consequences are alarming. The stream 
of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented 
into a river — - expanded into a sea. A few centuries 
since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a 
great library ; but what would you say to libraries 
such as actually exist, containing three or four hun- 
dred thousand volumes ; legions of authors at the 
same time busy ; and the press going on with fear- 
fully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the 
number ? Unless some unforeseen mortality should 
break out among the progeny of the muse, now that 
she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I 
fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be suffi- 
cient. Criticism may do much. It increases with the 
increase of literature, and^ resembles one of those salu- 
tary checks on population spoken of by economists. 
All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given 
to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all 
will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, writ- 
ers will write, printers will print, and the world will 
inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will 



112 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

soon be tlie employment of a lifetime merely to learn 
their names. Many a man of passable information, 
at the present day, reads scarcely anything but reviews ; 
and before long a man of erudition will be little bet- 
ter than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning 
most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting 
you, but I perceive you are rather given to prose. I 
would ask the fate of an author who was making some 
noise just as I left the world. His reputation, how- 
ever, was considered quite temporary. The learned 
shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-edu- 
cated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of 
Greek,^ and had been obliged to run the country for 
deer-stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I 
presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

" On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very 
man that the literature of his period has experienced 
a duration beyond the ordinary term of English litera- 
ture. There rise authors now and then, who seem 
proof against the mutability of language, because they 
have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles 
of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that 
we sometimes see on the banks of a stream ; which, 
by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the 
mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations 
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being 
swept away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up 
many a neighboring plant, and, perhaps, worthless 
weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shak- 
speare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of 

^ The reference is to Ben Jonson's line, in his poem, To the 
Memory of my beloved Master William Shakspeare : — 
" And thougli tbou hadst small Latin and less Greek." 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 113 

time, retaining in modern use the language and litera- 
ture of his day, and giving duration to many an indif- 
ferent author, merely from having flourished in his 
vicinity. But even he, I gn&vQ to say, is gradually 
assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is over- 
run by a profusion of commentators, who, like clam- 
bering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant 
that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 
chuckle, until at length he broke out in a plethoric fit 
of laughter that had well-nigh choked him, by reason 
of his excessive corpulency. '' Mighty well I " cried 
he, as soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! 
and so you would persuade me that the literature of 
an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! 
by a man without learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a 
poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another fit of 
laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rude- 
ness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his 
having flourished in a less polished age. I deter- 
mined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of 
all writers he has the best chance for immortality. 
Others may write from the head, but he writes from 
the heart, and the heart will always understand him. 
He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features 
are always the same, and always interesting. Prose 
writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are 
crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts ex- 
panded into tediousness. But with the true poet 
everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives 
the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He 
illustrates them by everything that he sees most 



114 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pic- 
tures of human life, such as it is passing before himr 
His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, 
if I may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. 
They are caskets which inclose within a small com^ 
pass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, 
which are thus transmitted in a portable form to pos- 
terity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, 
and require now and then to be renewed, as in the 
case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic 
value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look 
back over the long reach of literary history. What 
vast valleys of dullness, filled with monkish legends 
and academical controversies ! what bogs of theologi- 
cal speculations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! 
Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumi- 
nated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely 
separate heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical 
intelligence from age to age." ^ 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon 
the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the 

1 Thorow earth and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
Which doth surmount our common talks 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

(Quoted by Irving' from Churchyard.) 

[Thomas Churchyard, an English poet and soldier, was born 
about 1520, and died in 1604.] 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 115 

door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, 
who came to inform me that it was time to close the 
library. I sought to have a parting word with the 
quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; the 
clasps were closed : and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed. I have been to the 
library two or three times since, and have endeavored 
to draw it into further conversation, but in vain ; and 
whether all this rambling colloquy actually took place, 
or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to 
which I am subject, I have never to this moment been 
able to discover. 



116 WASHINGTON IRVING, 



THE V0YAGE.1 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting. 
What 's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage 
lie has to make is an excellent preparative. The 
temporary absence of worldly scenes and employ- 
ments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to 
receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of 
waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank 
page in existence. There is no gradual transition by 
which, as in Europe, the features and population of 
one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of 
another. From the moment you lose sight of the land 
you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on the 
opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, 
and a connected succession of persons and incidents, 
that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect 
of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, "a 

^ Irving's first voyage to Europe was made in 1804 in a sail- 
ing vessel. He was at that time twenty-one years of age. He 
visited Europe a second time in 1815, going, as before, in a sail- 
ing vessel, for, although Fulton was successful with his steam- 
boat on the Hudson as early as 1807, the Atlantic was not crossed 
by steamer until 1838. The Sketch-Book appeared in 1819 and 
1820 in seven successive numbers, the first of which contained 
The Voyage. 



THE VOYAGE. 117 

lengthening chain" at each remove of our pilgrimage; 
but the chain is unbroken ; we can trace it back link 
by link ; and we feel that the last still grapples us to 
home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It 
makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure 
anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubt- 
ful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, 
but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject 
to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering dis- 
tance palpable and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw 
the last blue line of my native land fade away like a 
cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one 
volume of the world and its concerns, and had time 
for meditation, before I opened another. That land, 
too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all 
most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur 
in it, what changes might take place in me, before I 
should visit it again! Who can tell, when he sets 
forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the 
uncertain (currents of existence; or when he may 
return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the 
scenes of his childhood? 

I said that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct 
the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and 
fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full 
of subjects for meditation; but then they are the won- 
ders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend to 
abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted 
to loll over the quarter -railing or climb to the main^ 
top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on 
the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze upon 
the piles of golden clouds just peering above the hori- 
zon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them 



118 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

with a creation of my own ; to watch the gentle undu- 
lating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to 
die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy 
height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth 
gambols : shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
of the ship; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge 
form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, dart- 
ing, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My im- 
agination would conjure up all that I had heard or 
read of the watery world beneath me: of the finny 
herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shape- 
less monsters that lurk among the very foundations 
of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell 
the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of 
the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. 
How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening 
to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glori- 
ous monument of human invention; which has in a 
manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought 
the ends of the world into communion ; has established 
an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile 
regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has 
diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of 
cultivated life; and has thus bound together those 
scattered portions of the human race, between which 
nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable bar- 
rier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting 
at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the 
monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts atten- 
tion. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must 



THE VOYAGE. 119 

have been completely wrecked; for there were the 
remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 
had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their 
being washed off by the waves. There was no trace 
by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. 
The wreck had evidently drifted about many months; 
clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long 
sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought 
I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — 
they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest 
— their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the 
deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed 
over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. 
What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what 
prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! 
How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, 
pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intel- 
ligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expecta- 
tion darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — 
and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may 
ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever 
be known is that she sailed from her port, ''and was 
never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to 
many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the 
case in the evening, when the weather, which had 
hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, 
and gave indications of one of those sudden storms 
which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a 
summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of 
a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 
every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I 
was particularly struck with a short one related by 
the captain. 



120 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout 
ship across tlie banks of Newfoundland, one of those 
heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it 
impossible for us to see far ahead, even in the day- 
time; but at night the weather was so thick that we 
could not distinguish any object at twice the length of 
the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a con- 
stant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. 
The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we 
were going at a great rate through the water. Sud- 
denly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — 
it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She 
was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside 
toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had 
neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- 
ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel, 
bore her down below the waves; we passed over her 
and were hurried on our course. As the crashing 
wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two 
or three half -naked wretches rushing from her cabin; 
they just started from their beds to be swallowed 
shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to 
our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall 
never forget that cry ! It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such headway. 
We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place 
where the smack had anchored. We cruised about 
for several hours in the dense fog. Wo fired signal- 
guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any 
survivors ; but all was silent — we never saw or heard 
anything of them more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all 



THE VOYAGE, 121 

my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. 
The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There 
was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and 
broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times 
the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent 
asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along 
the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness 
doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild 
waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by 
the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering 
and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed 
miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved 
her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water; 
her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Some- 
times an impending surge appeared ready to over- 
whelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of 
the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still 
followed me. The whistling of the wind through the 
rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking 
of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk -heads, 
as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. 
As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the 
ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death 
were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his 
prey: the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a 
seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favor- 
ing breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to 
flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening in- 
fluence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When 
the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, 
how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems 



122 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

to lord it over tlie deep ! I might fill a volume witli 
the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is almost 
a continual reverie — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry 
of "land! "was given from the mast-head. None but 
those who have experienced it can form an idea of the 
delicious throng of sensations which rush into ar 
American's bosom when he first comes in sight of 
Europe. There is a volume of associations with the 
very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with 
everything of which his childhood has heard, or on 
which his studious years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it 
was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that 
prowled like guardian gaints along the coast; the 
headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; 
the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all 
were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the 
Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. 
My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their 
trim shrubberies and green grassplots. I saw the 
mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and 
the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow 
of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of Eng- 
land. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship 
was enabled to come at once to the pier. It waS' 
thronged with people: some, idle lookers-on; others, 
eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could dis- 
tinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. 
His hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was whis- 
tling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small 
space having been accorded him by the crowd, in 



THE VOYAGE, 123 

deference to Ms temporary importance. There were 
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged be- 
tween the shore and the ship, as friends happened to 
recognize each other. I particularly noticed one 
young woman of humble dress, but interesting 
demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the 
crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the 
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She 
seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a 
faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who 
had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sym- 
pathy of every one on board. When the weather was 
fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on 
deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so 
increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only 
breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he 
died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the 
river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with 
a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it 
was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recog- 
nize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted 
on his features ; it read at once a whole volume of sor- 
row; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, 
and stood wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of 
acquaintances — the greetings of friends — the con- 
sultations of men of business. I alone was solitary 
and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to 
receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers 
— but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 



124 WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE WIFE. 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man 
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ... 
The violet bed 's not sweeter. 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude 
with which women sustain the most overwhelming 
reverses of fortune. Those disasters which break 
down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the 
dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer 
sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft 
and tender female,^ who had been all weakness and 
dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while 
treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising 
in mental force to be the comforter and support of 
her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with un- 
shrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foli- 
age about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, 
will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunder- 
bolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and 
bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully or- 
dered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere 
dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
should be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- 
den calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses 
of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, 
and binding up the broken heart. 

^ This use of the word was common enough in Irving's day. 
Scott repeatedly uses it, but it is already antiquated. 



THE WIFE, 125 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around 
him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest 
affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, 
with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. 
If you are prosperous, there they are to share your 
prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married 
man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve 
his situation in the world than a single one ; partly 
because he is more stimulated to exertion by the neces- 
sities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend 
upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his 
spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endear- 
ments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that 
though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet 
there is still a little world of love at home, of which 
he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
run to waste and self -neglect ; to fancy himself lonely 
and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some 
deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic 
story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate 
friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accom- 
plished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of 
fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but 
that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the 
anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, 
and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies 
that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her 
life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced an 
harmonious combination : he was of a romantic and 
somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. 
I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he 



126 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly 
powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst 
of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there 
alone she sought favor and acceptance. When lean- 
ing on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely 
with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air 
with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth 
a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, 
as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very help- 
lessness. Never did a couple set forward on the 
flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a 
fairer prospect of felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to 
have embarked his property in large speculations ; 
and he had not been married many months, when, by 
a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from 
him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. 
For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went 
about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking 
heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and 
what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity 
of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for 
he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the 
news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affec- 
tion, that all was not well with him. She marked his 
altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be de- 
ceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerful- 
ness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender 
blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but 
she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The 
more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was 
the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. 
A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish 
from that cheek — the song will die away from those 



THE WIFE. 127 

lips — ■ the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with 
sorrow ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly 
in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the 
cares and miseries of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his 
whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When 
I heard him through I inquired, "Does your wife know 
all this ? " — At the question he burst into an agony 
of tears. " For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have 
any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the 
thought of her that drives me almost to madness ! " 

" And why not ? " said I. " She must know it 
sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and 
the intelligence may break upon her in a more start- 
ling manner than if imparted by yourself ; for the 
accents of those we love soften the harshest tidins-s. 
Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts 
of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also en- 
dangering the only bond that can keep hearts together 

— an unreserved community of thought and feeling. 
She will soon perceive that something is secretly prey- 
ing upon your mind ; and true love will not brook 
reserve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even 
the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

" Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to 
give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike 
her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her hus- 
band is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies 
of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with 
me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I 
have dragged her down from the sphere in which she 
might have continued to move in constant brightness 

— the light of every eye — the admiration of every 
heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? she has been 



128 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How 
can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. 
Oh! it will break her heart — it will break her heart!" 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its 
flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his 
paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into 
moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged 
him to break his situation at once to his wife. He 
shook his head mournfully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is ne- 
cessary she should know it, that you may take the 
steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. 
You must change your style of living — nay," observ- 
ving a pang to cross his countenance, " don't let that 
afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your 
happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for 
being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not 
require a palace to be happy with Mary — " 

" I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, 
*' in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty 
and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her I 
— God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport 
of grief and tenderness. 

" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, 
and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me 
she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be 
a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call 
forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of 
her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves 
you for yourself. There is in every true woman's 
heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in 
the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles 
up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adver- 



THE WIFE. 129 

sity. No man knows what tlie wife of his bosom is 
— no man knows what a ministering angel she is — 
until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of 
this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my man- 
ner, and the figurative style of my language, that 
caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the 
auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the im- 
pression I had made, I finished by persuading him to 
go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt 
some little solicitude for the result. Who can calcu- 
late on the fortitude of one whose life has been a 
round of pleasures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at 
the dark downward path of low humility suddenly 
pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny 
regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, 
ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many 
galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is 
a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the 
next morning without trepidation. He had made the 
disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it ? " 

" Like an angel I It seemed rather to be a relief 
to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, 
and asked if this was all that had lately made me un- 
happy. — But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot real- 
ize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of 
poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no 
privation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed conven- 
iences or elegancies. When we come practically to 
experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 
humiliations — then will be the real trial." 



130 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

" But," said I, " now that you have got over the 
severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you 
let the world into the secret the better. The disclo- 
sure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single misery, 
and soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer it, in an- 
ticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so 
much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the 
struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse 
— the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come 
to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and you 
disarm poverty of its sharpest sting. " On this point 
I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false 
pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious 
to conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards he called upon me in the 
evening. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and 
taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles 
from town. He had been busied all day in sending 
out furniture. The new establishment required few 
articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the 
splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, 
excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too 
closely associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged 
to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweet- 
est moments of their courtship were those when he 
had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at 
this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting hus- 
band. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his 
wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. 
My feelings had become strongly interested in the 
progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine even- 
ing, I offered to accompany him. 



THE WIFE. 131 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, 
as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, 
from his lips. 

" And what of her ? " asked I : " has anything hap- 
pened to her? " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is 
it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to 
be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil 
almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habita- 
tion?" 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and 
good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than 
I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, 
and tenderness, and comfort ! " 

" Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call your- 
self poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you 
never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you 
' possess in that woman." 

" Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the 
cottage were over, 1 think I could then be comfortable. 
But this is her first day of real experience ; she has 
been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has 
been employed all day in arranging its miserable 
equipments — she has for the first time, known the 
fatigues of domestic employment — she has, for the 
first time, looked round her on a home destitute of ev- 
erything elegant, — almost of everything convenient ; 
and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, 
brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture 
that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, 



132 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a com- 
plete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. 
It was humble enough in its appearance for the most 
pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. 
A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of 
foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers taste- 
fully disposed about the door, and on the grassplot in 
front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath 
that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just 
as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Les- 
lie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was 
Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touching 
simplicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu- 
liarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped 
forward to hear more distinctly. His step made a 
noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face 
glanced out at the window and vanished — a light 
footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth 
to meet us • she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; 
a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a 
fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance 
beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so 
lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you 
are come ! I have been watching and watching for you ; 
and running down the lane, and looking out for you. 
I 've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind 
the cottage ; and I 've been gathering some of the 
most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond 
of them — and we have such excellent cream — and 
everything is so sweet and still here — Oh ! " said she, 
putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly 
in his face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 



THE WIFE. 133 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his 
bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed 
her again and again — he could not speak, but the 
tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured 
me, that though the world has since gone prosperously 
with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, 
yet never has he experienced a moment of more ex- 
quisite felicity. 



134 WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 

*' If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' It is a greater offence to steal dead 
men's labor than their clothes,' — what sliall become of most writers ? " 

Burton's Anatomy ojp Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of 
the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, 
on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of 
barrenness, should teem with voluminous productions. 
As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, 
his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is contin- 
ually finding out some very simple cause for some 
great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my 
peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder 
upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mys- 
teries of the book-making craft, and at once put an 
end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness 
with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in 
warm weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases 
of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics 
on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with 
nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical 
paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing 
about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a 
distant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It 
was closed, but every now and then it would open, 
and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in 
black, would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, 
without noticing any of the surrounding objects. 
There was an air of mystery about this that piqued 
my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 135 

passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with 
that facility with which the portals of enchanted cas- 
tles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. I found 
myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great 
cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just 
under the cornice, were arranged a great number of 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the 
room were placed long tables, with stands for reading 
and writing, at which sat many pale, studious person- 
ages, poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging 
among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes 
of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through 
this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might 
hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occa- 
sionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he 
shifted his position to turn over the page of an old 
folio ; doubtless arising from that hollowness and 
flatulency incident to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 
something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, 
whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper in 
profound silence, glide out of the room, and return 
shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the 
other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. 
I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a 
body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult 
sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian 
tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted library, 
in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a 
year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring 
him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at 
the end of the year, when the magic portal once more 
swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in 



136 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads 
of the multitude, and to control the powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered 
to one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the 
room, and begged an interpretation of the strange 
scene before me. A few words were sufficient for 
the purpose. I found that these mysterious person- 
ages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally 
authors, and in the very act of manufacturing books. 
I was, in fact, in the reading-room of the great British 
Library — an immense collection of volumes of all 
ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, 
and most of which are seldom read : one of those 
sequestered pools of obsolete literature, to which mod- 
ern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic 
lore, or " pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell 
their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in 
a corner, and watched the process of this book manu- 
factory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, 
who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, 
printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing 
some work of profound erudition, that would be pur- 
chased by every man who wished to be thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or 
laid open upon his table ; but never read. I observed 
him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit 
out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his din- 
ner, or whether he was endeavoring to keep off that 
exhaustion of the stomach produced by much ponder- 
ing over dry works, I leave to harder students than 
myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
colored clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 137 

of countenance, who had all the appearance of an 
author on good terms with his bookseller. After 
considering him attentively, I recognized in him a dili- 
gent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled 
off well with the trade. I 'was curious to see how he 
manufactured his wares. He made more stir and 
show of business than any of the others : dipping into 
various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, 
taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, 
" line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little 
and there a little." The contents of his book seemed 
to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron 
in " Macbeth." It was here a finger and there a 
thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm's sting, with his 
own gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make 
the medley " slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposi- 
tion be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may 
it not be the way in which Providence has taken care 
that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be pre- 
served from age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay 
of the works in which they were first produced ? We 
see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, pro- 
vided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, 
in the maws of certain birds ; so that animals which, 
in themselves, are little better than carrion, and appar- 
ently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the 
cornfield, are, in fact. Nature's carriers to disperse and 
perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties 
and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are 
caught up by these flights of predatory writers, and 
cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote 
and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, 
undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up 



138 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous 
history revives in the shape of a romance — an old 
legend changes into a modern play — and a sober 
philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is 
in the clearing' of our American woodlands : where we 
burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf 
oaks start up in their place ; and we never see the 
prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it 
gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 
into which ancient writers descend ; they do but sub- 
mit to the great law of nature, which declares that all 
sublunary shapes of matter shall be limited in their 
duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements 
shall never perish. Generation after generation, both 
in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital 
principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species 
continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget 
authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in 
a good old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to 
say, with the authors who preceded them — and from 
whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, 
I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. 
Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations 
from these works ; or to the profound quiet of the 
room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wander- 
ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper 
times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, 
so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my 
imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene 
remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed 
in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 139 

was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, 
but that the number was increased. The long tables 
had disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I be- 
held a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen 
plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, 
Monmouth street. Whenever they seized upon a book, 
by one of those incongruities common to dreams, me- 
thought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique 
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. 
I noticed, however, that no one pretended to clothe him- 
self from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from 
one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus deck- 
ing himself out piecemeal, while some of his original 
rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 
There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson whom I ob- 
served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volu- 
minous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having 
purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to 
look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace 
of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of 
wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busied 
embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread 
drawn out of several old court dresses of the reign of 
Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself mag- 
nificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck 
a nosegay in his bosom, culled from '' The Paradise of 
Daintie Devices," and having put Sir Philij) Sidney's 
hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an ex- 
quisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but 
of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely 
with the sj)oils from several obscure tracts of philoso- 
phy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he 
was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that 



140 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parch- 
ment from a Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, 
who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which 
sparkled among their own ornaments, without eclips- 
ing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the 
costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their 
principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; 
but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array 
themselves from top to toe in the patchwork manner 
I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak of one 
genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian 
hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but 
whose rural wanderings had been confined to the 
classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of 
the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths 
and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hang- 
ing his head on one side, went about with a fantastical 
lack-a-daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But 
the personage that most struck my attention was a 
pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a 
remarkably large and square, but bald head. He en- 
tered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way 
through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confi- 
dence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek 
quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majesti- 
cally away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry 
suddenly resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! 
thieves ! " I looked, and lo ! the portraits about the 
wall became animated ! The old authors thrust out, 
first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked 
down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, 
and then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 141 

their rifled property. The scene of scampering and 
hubbub that ensued baffles all description. The un- 
happy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their 
plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen 
old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, 
there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of 
modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pol- 
lux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders 
than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As 
to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned 
some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many 
patches and colors as Harlequin, and there was as fierce 
a contention of claimants about him, as about the dead 
body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, 
to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe 
and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to 
cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was caught 
by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek griz- 
zled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright 
with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! 
They were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling 
off went his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment 
was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his 
domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, 
" chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a 
few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe 
of this learned Theban, that I burst into an immod- 
erate fit of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. 
The tumult and the scuffle were at an end. The cham- 
ber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors 
shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in 
shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found 



142 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole as- 
semblage of book-worms gazing at me with astonish- 
ment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my 
burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that 
grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wis- 
dom, as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did 
not comprehend him, but I soon found that the li- 
brary was a kind of literary " preserve," subject to 
game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt 
there without special license and permission. In a 
word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, 
and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I 
should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon 
me. 



CHRISTMAS. 143 



CHRISTMAS. 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray 
old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true. 
The poor from the gates were not chidden 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination than the lingerings of the holi- 
day customs and rural games of former times. They 
recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May 
morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world 
through books, and believed it to be all that poets 
had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor 
of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps, with 
equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more 
homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I re- 
gret to say that they are daily growing more and more 
faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still 
more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble 
those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, 
which we see crumbling in various parts of the coun- 
try, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly 
lost in the additions and alterations of later days. 
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about 
the rural game and holiday revel, from which it has 
derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds its 
rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering 



144 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping 
together their tottering remains, and, as it were, em- 
balming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that 
blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a 
state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The ser- 
vices of the church about this season are extremely 
tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful 
story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes 
that accompanied its announcement. They gradually 
increase in fervor and pathos during the season of 
Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
morning that brought peace and good-will to men. 
I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral 
feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing or- 
gan performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and 
filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant har- 
mony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from 
days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates 
the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has 
been made the season for gathering together of family 
connections, and drawing closer again those bands of 
kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sor- 
rows of the world are continually operating to cast 
loose ; of calling back the children of a family, who 
have launched forth in life, and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal 
hearth, that rallying place of the affections, there to 
grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year 



CHRISTMAS. 145 

that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At 
other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures 
from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally 
forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny land- 
scape, and we " live abroad and everywhere." The 
song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breath- 
ing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of 
summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its 
mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep 
delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us 
with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the 
luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, 
when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped 
in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifi- 
cations to moral sources. The dreariness and desola- 
tion of the landscape, the short gloomy days and dark- 
some nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, 
shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and 
make us more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the 
social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; 
our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more 
sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
brought more closely together by dependence on each 
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and 
we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving- 
kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; 
and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure 
element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate 
on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth 
of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an arti- 
ficial summer and sunshine through the room, and 
lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. 
Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into 



146 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy 
glance o£ love more sweetly eloquent — than by the 
winter fireside ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind 
rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, 
what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober 
and sheltered security, in which we look round upon 
the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic 
hilarity ? 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural 
habit throughout every class of society, have always 
been fond of those festivals and holidays which 
agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life ; and 
they were, in former days, particularly observant of 
the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is 
inspiring to read even the dry details which some an- 
tiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the bur- 
lesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth 
and good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- 
brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and 
unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the 
peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm, 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of 
castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and 
the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned 
under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest 
cottage welcomed the festive season with green deco- 
rations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced 
its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers 
to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled 
round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refine- 
ment is the havoc it has made among the hearty old 



CHRISTMAS. 147 

holiday customs. It has completely taken off the 
sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embel- 
lishments of life, and has worn down society into a 
more smooth and polished, but certainly a less char- 
acteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremoni- 
als of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like 
the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become matters 
of speculation and dispute among commentators. 
They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, 
when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vig- 
orously ; times wild and picturesque, which have fur- 
nished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama 
with its most attractive variety of characters and man- 
ners. The world has become more worldly. There is 
more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure 
has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream ; 
and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet chan- 
nels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of 
domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- 
ened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its 
honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of 
golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and 
lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial 
castles and stately manor-houses in which they were 
celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, 
the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, 
but are unfitted to the light showy saloons and gay 
drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive 
honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful excite- 
ment in England. It is gratifying to see that home 
feeling completely aroused which holds so powerful 
a place in every English bosom. The preparations 



148 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

making on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents of 
good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of re- 
gard, and qiiickeners of kind feelings ; the evergreens 
distributed about houses and churches, emblems of 
peace and gladness : all these have the most pleasing 
effect in producing fond associations, and kindling 
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, 
rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid- 
watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect 
harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that 
still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep falleth upon 
man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and, con- 
necting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, 
have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, 
announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought 
upon by these moral influences, turns everything to 
melody and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, 
heard sometimes in the profound repose of the coun- 
try, " telling the night watches to his feathery dames," 
was thought by the common people to announce the 
approach of this sacred festival. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at 
this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It 
is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling — the 



CHRISTMAS. 149 

season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality 
in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the 
heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of 
home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling 
joys, reanimates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian 
breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant 
fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though 
for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship 
welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influ- 
ence of the season beaming into my soul from the 
happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is 
reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every counte- 
nance, bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent 
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays 
of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who 
can turn churlishly away from contemplating the feli- 
city of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling 
and repining in his loneliness when all around is joy- 
ful, may have his moments of strong excitement and 
selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social 
sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry 
Christmas.^ 

^ It is to be noted that the custom of the Christmas Tree 
is not mentioned bj Irving, Coleridge, writing a little earlier 
from Germany, remarks upon it as something unknown in Eng- 
land, and the custom now is far more common in America than 
in England. 



150 WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 

Omne ben(i 

Sine poenS 
Tempus est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque morS 
Libros deponendi. 



Old Holiday School Song.i 



In tlie preceding paper I have made some general 
observations on the Christmas festivities of England, 
and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes 
of a Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing 
which I would most courteously invite my reader to 
lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and 
anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I 
rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, 
on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was 
crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by 
their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions 
of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. 
It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets 
and boxes of delicacies ; and hares hung dangling 
their long ears about the coachman's box, presents 
from distant friends for the impending feast. I had 
three fine rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers 
inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit 
which I have observed in the children of this country. 
They were returning home for the holidays in high 
glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. 

^ The stanza signifies that it is well there is a time for making 
merry that brings no punishment, and that the hour is at hand 
for promptly putting aside one's books. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 151 

It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the 
little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were 
to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from 
the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. 
They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the . 
family and household, down to the very cat and dog ; 
and of the joy they were to give their little sisters by 
the presents with which their pockets were crammed ; 
but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward 
with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which 
I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, pos- 
sessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of 
Bucephalus.^ How he could trot ! how he could run ! 
and then such leaps as he would take ■ — there was not / 
a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity pre- 
sented, they addressed a host of questions, and pro- 
nounced him one of the best fellows in the world. 
Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary 
air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who 
wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large 
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole 
of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty 
care and business, but he is particularly so during this 
season, having so many commissions to execute in con- 
sequence of the great interchange of presents. And 
here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my un- 
travelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as 
a general representation of this very numerous and 

1 The favorite charger of Alexander the Great. Tradition 
tells how Alexander, in his boyhood, tamed Bucephalus, thus 
fufilling the condition stated by an oracle as necessary for ob- 
taining the throne of Macedon. 



152 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

important class o£ functionaries, wlio have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, 
and prevalent throughout the fraternity ; so that, 
wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, 
he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or 
mystery. 

He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mot- 
tled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard 
feeding into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled 
into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of malt 
liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a 
multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He 
wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll 
of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly 
knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in sum- 
mer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; 
the present, most probably, of some enamored country 
lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color 
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the 
knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about 
half way up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; 
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent mate- 
rials ; and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of 
his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness 
and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in 
an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
consideration along the road ; has frequent confer- 
ences with the village housewives, who look upon him 
as a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems 
to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed 
country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses 
are to be changed, he throws down the reins with 



THE STAGE-COACH. 153 

sometliing of an air, and abandons the cattle to the 
care of the hostler, his duty being merely to drive 
from one stage to another. When off the box, his 
hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and 
he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most 
absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded 
by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoe- 
blacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that infest inns 
and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd 
jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings 
of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These 
all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his 
cant phrases ; echo his opinions about horses and other 
topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor to im- 
itate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that 
has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pock- 
ets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo 
Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheer- 
fulness in every countenance throughout the journey. 
A stage-coach, however, carries animation always with 
it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. 
The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, pro- 
duces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet 
friends ; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure 
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly 
take leave of the group that accompanies them. In 
the meantime, the coachman has a world of small 
commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare 
or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or news- 
paper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, 
with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to 
some half -blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd- 



154 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the 
coach rattles through the village, every one runs to 
the window, and you have glances on every side of 
fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. At 
the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and 
wise men, who take their stations there for the impor- 
tant purpose of seeing company pass ; but the sagest 
knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the 
passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much 
speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his 
lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by ; the Cyclops ^ 
round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and 
suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre, in 
brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the 
handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine 
to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he glares through 
the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of the 
smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a 
more than usual animation to the country, for it 
seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and 
good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of 
the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages ; 
the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were 
thronged with customers. The housewives were stir- 
ring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order ; 
and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red 
berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene i 
brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas 
preparations : " Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, 

1 The word has the same form in the singular and the plural. fl 

The Cyclops, a mythical race of giants with but one eye, in the 9 

middle of the forehead, were said to assist Vulcan in his work- " 
shops under Mount Etna. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 155 

geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all 
die — for in twelve days ^ a multitude of people will 
not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar 
and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or 
never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance 
and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the 
fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on 
Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and 
ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice 
and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not 
lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation 
by a shout from my little travelling companions. 
They had been looking out of the coach windows for 
the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage 
as they approached home, and now there was a general 
burst of joy — " There 's John ! and there 's old Carlo ! 
and there 's Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, 
clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking 
servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accom- 
panied by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubt- 
able Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy 
mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by 
the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times 
that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the 
little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and 
hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for 
joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest ; 

^ Christmas festivities in the past were usually celebrated 
with great spirit for twelve days, or until Twelfth Night (Janu- 
ary 6), and sometimes lasted until Candlemas (February 2). 



156 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some 
difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by 
turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others 
holding John's hands ; both talking at once, and over- 
powering him with questions about home, and with 
school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling 
in which I do not know whether pleasure or melan- 
choly predominated ; for I was reminded of those days 
when, like them, I had neither known care nor sor- 
row, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. 
We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the 
horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road 
brought us in sight of a neat country seat. I could 
just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young 
girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, 
with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along 
the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, 
in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove 
of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had 
determined to pass the night. As we drove into the 
great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light 
of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. 
I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that 
picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest 
enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was 
of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and 
tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and 
there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and 
flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling, 
a smoke-jack ^ made its ceaseless clanking beside the 

^ A kind of circular wheel or fan, horizontally placed, that 



THE STAGE-COACH. 157 

fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well- 
scoured deal table extended along- one side of the 
kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other hearty 
viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of 
ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior 
order were preparing to attack this stout repast, while 
others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on 
two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim 
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards 
under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; 
but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a 
flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the 
group round the fire. The scene completely realized 
Poor Robin's ^ humble idea of the comforts of mid- 
winter : — 

" Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast. 
Tobacco and a good coal fire. 
Are things this season doth require." 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, 
and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a 
countenance which I thought I knew. I moved for- 
ward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. 
I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Braceb ridge, a 
sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I 
had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting 

was made to revolve by the upward current in the chimney. It 
turned a spit. 

1 Poor Robin was a pseudonym of the poet, Robert Herrick, 
under which he issued a series of almanacs that was begun in 
1661. The passage quoted is from the number for 1694. 



158 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old 
fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a 
thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excel- 
lent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient inter- 
view at an inn was impossible ; and finding that I 
was not pressed for time, and was merely making a 
tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him 
a day or two at his father's country seat, to which he 
was going to pass the holidays, and which lay at a 
few miles distance. " It is better than eating a soli- 
tary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the 
old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and 
I must confess the preparation I had seen for univer- 
sal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel 
a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, there- 
fore, at once, with his invitation ; the chaise drove up 
to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way 
to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 159 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time. 

To the next prime. 



Cartwright. 



It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely 
cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen 
ground ; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, 
and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. 
" He knows where he is going," said my companion, 
laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of 
the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the 
old school, and prides himself upon keeping up some- 
thing of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable 
specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays 
in its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for 
our men of fortune spend so much of their time in 
town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, 
that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life 
are almost polished away. My father, however, from 
early years, took honest Peacham^ for his text-book, 
instead of Chesterfield ; ^ he determined in his own 
mind, that there was no condition more truly honor- 
able and enviable than that of a country gentleman 
on his paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole 

1 Peacham's The Complete Gentleman, 1622. 

2 The Earl of Chesterfield wrote a book on manners and lesser 
morals, Letters to a Son, which long held its place as the text- 
book of a gentleman. 



160 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate 
for the revival of the old rural games and holiday 
observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient 
and modern, who have treated on the subject. Indeed 
his favorite range of reading is among the authors 
who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he 
insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen 
than any of their successors. He even regrets some- 
times that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, 
when England was itself, and had its peculiar man- 
ners and customs. As he lives at some distance from 
the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, 
without any rival gentry near him, he has that most 
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an oppor- 
tunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without 
molestation. Being representative of the oldest family 
in the neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry 
being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in 
general, is known simply by the appellation of ' The 
Squire ' ; a title which has been accorded to the head 
of the family since time immemorial. I think it best 
to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to 
prepare you for any eccentricities that might other- 
wise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a 
park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. 
It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, 
fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. 
The huge square columns that supported the gate were 
surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was 
the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and 
almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which re- 
sounded through the still frosty air, and was answered 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 161 

by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion- 
house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immedi- 
ately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell 
strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primi- 
tive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, 
with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver 
hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. 
She came courtesying forth, with many expressions of 
simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, 
it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas eve 
in the servants' hall ; they could not do without him, 
as he was the best hand at a song and story in the 
household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great 
distance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road 
wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the 
naked branches of which the moon glittered, as she 
rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The 
lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of 
snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams 
caught a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might be 
seen a thin transparent vapor, stealing up from the 
low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the 
landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport. 
" How often," said he, " have I scampered up this 
avenue, on returning home on school vacations ! How 
often have I played under these trees when a boy ! 
I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look 
up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, 
and having us around him on family festivals. He 
used to direct and superintend our games with the 



162 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

strictness that some parents do the stndies of their 

children. He was very particular that we should 

play the old English games according to their original 

form ; and consulted old books for precedent and 

authority for every ' merrie disport ;' yet I assure you 

there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the 

policy of the good old gentleman to make his children 

feel that home w^as the happiest place in the world ; 

and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the 

choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of 

dogs of all sorts and sizes, '' mongrel, puppy, whelp 

and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by 

the ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of the 

chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" — The little dogs and all, 
Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his 
voice, the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, 
and in a moment he was surrounded and almost over- 
powered by the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family 
mansion, partly throw^n in deep shadow, and partly lit 
up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular build- 
ing, of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the archi- 
tecture of different periods. One wing was evidently 
very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows 
jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the foli- 
age of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass 
glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house 
was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, 
having been repaired and altered, as my friend told 
me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with that 
monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 163 

house were laid out in the old formal manner of artifi- 
cial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, 
and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a 
leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old 
gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to pre- 
serve this obsolete finery in all its original state. He 
admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of 
magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 
good old family style. The boasted imitation of na- 
ture in modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical 
government ; it smacked of the levelling system — I 
could not help smiling at this introduction of politics 
into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension 
that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant 
in his creed. — Frank assured me, however, that it was 
almost the only instance in which he had ever heard 
his father meddle with politics ; and he believed that 
he had got this notion from a member of parliament 
who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire 
was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew- 
trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally 
attacked by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must 
proceed from the servants' hall, where a great deal of 
revelry was permitted, and even encouraged by the 
squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, pro- 
vided everything was done conformably to ancient 
usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman 
blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white 
loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon : the Yule log and 
Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the mistle- 



164 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

toe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent 
peril of all the pretty housemaids.^ 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that 
we had to ring repeatedly before we could make our- 
selves heard. On our arrival being announced, the 
squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his 
two other sons ; one a young officer in the army, home 
on leave of absence ; the other an Oxonian, just from 
the university. The squire was a fine healthy-looking 
old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round 
an open florid countenance ; in which the physiogno- 
mist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous 
hint or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim 
and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; as 
the evening was far advanced, the squire would not 
permit us to change our travelling dress, but ushered 
us at once to the company, which was assembled in 
a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of dif- 
ferent branches of a numerous family connection, 
where there were the usual proportion of old uncles 
and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated 
spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged strip- 
lings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They 
were variously occupied ; some at a round game of 
cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; at one 
end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some 
nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding 
age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion 
of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, 

1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at 
Christmas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing 
the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. 
When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. — W. I. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 165 

about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy 
beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had 
been carried off to slumber through a peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to 
scan the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it 
had certainly been in old times, and the squire had 
evidently endeavored to restore it to something of its 
primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace 
was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, stand- 
ing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung 
a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enor- 
mous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the 
branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, 
whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the apart- 
ment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other 
sporting implements. The furniture was of the cum- 
brous workmanship of former days, though some arti- 
cles of modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole 
presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide over- 
whelming fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in 
the midst of which was an enormous log glowing 
and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light 
and heat : this I understood was the Yule clog, which 
the squire was particular in having brought in and 
illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient 
custom.^ 

1 The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of 
a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christ- 
mas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last 
year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, 
and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christ- 



166 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated 
in his hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside 
of his ancestors, and looking around him like the sun 
of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every 
heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his 
feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, 
would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail 
against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, 
confident of kindness and protection. There is an 
emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which 
cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts 
the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been 
seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the 
worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much 
at home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. 
It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the 
panels of which shone with wax, and around which 
were several family portraits decorated with holly and 

mas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was from the 
ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn 
all night ; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : — 

Come, bring with a noise. 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing ; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your heart's desiring. 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens 
in England, particularly in the north, and there are several 
superstitions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squint- 
ing person come to the house while it is burning, or a person 
barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining 
from the Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next 
year's Christmas fire. — W. I. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 167 

ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax 
tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, 
were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the 
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with 
substantial fare ; but the squire made his supper of 
frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk, 
with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for 
Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in 
the retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be per- 
fectly orthodox, and that I need not' be ashamed of 
my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth 
wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted 
by the humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. 
Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint appella- 
tion of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk little 
man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His 
nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face 
slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpet- 
ual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. 
He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a 
drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was 
irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
dealing very much in sly jokes and inuendoes with the 
ladies, and making infinite merriment by harping 
upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance 
of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. 
It seemed to be his great delight during supper to 
keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of 
stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving 
looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was 
the idol of the younger part of the company, who 



168 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

laughed at everything he said or did, and at every 
turn of his countenance ; I could not wonder at it, 
for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments 
in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; 
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance 
of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief ; and cut 
an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the 
young folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Brace- 
bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small indepen- 
dent income, which, by careful management, was suf- 
ficient for all his wants. He revolved through the 
family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit ; some- 
times visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
quite remote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of 
extensive connections and small fortunes in England. 
He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoy- 
ing the present moment ; and his frequent change of 
scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty 
unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors 
are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, his- 
tory, and intermarriages of the whole house of Brace- 
bridge, which made him a great favorite with the 
old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and 
superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habit- 
ually considered rather a young fellow, and he was 
master of the revels among the children ; so that there 
was not a more popular being in the sphere in which 
he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, 
he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to 
whom he had become a factotum, and whom he par- 
ticularly delighted by jumping with his humor in 
respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 169 

song to suit every occasion. We had presently a 
specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no sooner 
was supper removed, and spiced wines and other bev- 
erages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master 
Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. 
He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with 
a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means 
bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, 
like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
quaint old ditty. 

" JSTow Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear. 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and 
an old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, 
where he had been strumming all the evening, and 
to all appearance comforting himself with some of the 
squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, 
I was told, of the establishment, and, though osten- 
sibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found 
in the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old 
gentleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a 
merry one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and 
the squire himself figured down several couple with 
a partner, with whom he affirmed he had danced at 
every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master 
Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link 
between the old times and the new, and to be withal 
a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplish- 
ments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and 



170 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, 
rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; 
but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little 
romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild 
vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and 
defeated all his sober attempts at elegance : — such 
are the ill-assorted matches to which antique gentle- 
men are unfortunately prone I 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out 
one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rouge played a 
thousand little knaveries with impunity : he was full 
of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his 
aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, 
he was a universal favorite among the women. The 
most interesting couple in the dance was the young 
officer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing 
girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I 
had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected 
there was a little kindness growing up between them ; 
and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to cap- 
tivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and hand- 
some, and, like most young British officers of late years, 
had picked up various small accomplishments on the 
continent ; he could talk French and Italian, draw 
landscapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely ; but, 
above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what 
girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a 
guitar, and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, 
in an attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was 
studied, began the little French air of the Trouba- 
dour. The squire, however, exclaimed against hav- 
ing anything on Christmas eve but good old English ; 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 171 

upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for 
a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into 
another strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, 
gave Herrick's " Night-piece to Julia." 

" Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee, 
And the elves also, 
Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

" No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ; 
But on, on thy way, 
Not making a stay. 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

" Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

" Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 

And when I shall meet 

Thy silvery feet, 
My soul 1 '11 pour into thee." 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his part- 
ner was called ; she, however, was certainly uncon- 
scious of any such application, for she never looked 
at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. 
Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful 
blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, 
but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of 
the dance ; indeed, so great was her indifference, that 
she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice 



172 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song 
was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the 
kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I 
passed through the hall, on my way to my chamber, 
the dying embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a 
dusky glow, and had it not been the season when 
" no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half 
tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep 
whether the fairies might not be at their revels about 
the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 
ponderous furniture of which might have been fabri- 
cated in the days of the giants. The room was pan- 
elled with cornices of heavy carved work, in which 
flowers and grotesque faces were strangely intermin- 
gled ; and a row of black-looking portraits stared 
mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of 
rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and 
stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I had 
scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed 
to break forth in the air just below the window. I 
listened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I 
concluded to be the Waits from some neighboring vil- 
lage. They went round the house, playing under the 
windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them 
more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the 
upper part of the casement, partially lighting up the 
antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, 
became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord 
with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened 
— they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sank upon 
the pillow, and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY, 173 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
Smile like a field beset with corne ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden ? Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

Heerick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all 

the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, 

and nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber 

convinced me of their reality. While I lay musing on 

my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering 

outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. 

Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old 

Christmas carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door 
suddenly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little 
fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It con- 
sisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than 
six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the 
rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber 
door, but my sudden appearance frightened them into 
mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment play- 
ing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then 
stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, 
as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as 



174 WASHINGTON IRVING, 

they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them 
laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy 
feelings, in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospital- 
ity. The window of my chamber looked out upon 
what in summer would have been a beautiful land- 
scape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream wind- 
ing at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with 
noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a dis- 
tance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cot- 
tage chimneys hanging over it; and a church, with its 
dark spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. 
The house was surrounded with evergreens, according 
to the English custom, which would have given 
almost an appearance of summer; but the morning 
was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the preced- 
ing evening had been precipitated by the cold, and 
covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its 
fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage, 
A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that 
hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 
querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and 
gravity of a Spanish grandee, on the terrace walk 
below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant 
appeared to invite me to family prayers. He showed 
me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the 
house, where I found the principal part of the family 
already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with 
cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books; the ser- 
vants were seated on benches below. The old gentle- 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 175 

man read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, 
and Master Simon acted as clerk and made tlie 
responses; and I must do him the justice to say, that 
he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. 
The service was followed by a Christmas carol, 
which Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from 
a poem of his favorite author, Herrick ; and it had 
been adapted to an old church melody by Master 
Simon. As there were several good voices among the 
household, the effect was extremely pleasing; but I 
was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, 
and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the 
worthy squire delivered one stanza ; his eye glistening, 
and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time 
and tune : 

" 'T is thou that crown' st my glittering hearth 
With guiltlesse mirth, 
And giv'st me wassaile ^ bowles to drink, 
Spiced to the brink. 

Lord, 't is thy plenty -dropping hand 

That soiles my land, 
And giv'st me, for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning service 
was read on every Sunday and saint's daj?- throughout 
the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some mem- 
ber of the family. It was once almost universally the 
case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of Eng- 
land, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is 
falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be 

1 From the Anglo-Saxon, meaning Be in health. Hence it 
means the liquor with which one's health is drunk, — a kind of 
ale or wine flavored with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, roasted 
apples, etc., and much used at Christmas and other festivities. 



176 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those 
households where the occasional exercise of a beautiful 
form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the 
key-note to every temper for the day, and attunes every 
spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some 
bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and 
toast, which he censured as among the causes of mod- 
ern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of 
old English heartiness ; and though he admitted them 
to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there 
was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on 
the sideboard. 

After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with 
Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, 
as he was called by everybody but the squire. We 
were escorted by a number of gentlemanlike dogs, 
that seemed loungers about the establishment; from 
the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound — 
the last of which was of a race that had been in the 
family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a 
dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's button- 
hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance 
an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in 
his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in 
the yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I 
could not but feel the force of the squire's idea, that 
the formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and 
clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of proud 
aristocracy. 

There appeared to be an unusual number of pea- 
cocks about the place, and I was making some remarks 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 177 

upon what I termed a flock of them, that were bask- 
ing under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected 
in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me 
that, according to the most ancient and approved trea- 
tise on hunting, I must say a miuster of peacocks. "In 
the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, 
"we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, 
a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, 
or a buildino- of rooks." He went on to inform me 
that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought 
to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; 
for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, 
chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the 
better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of 
the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide 
himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small 
erudition on so whimsical a subject; but I found that 
the peacocks were birds of some consequence at the 
hall; for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they 
were great favorites with his father, who was extremely 
careful to keep up the breed, partly because they 
belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the 
stately banquets of the olden time ; and partly because 
they had a pomp and magnificence about them, highly 
becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was 
accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dig- 
nity than a peacock perched upon an antique stone 
balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an 
appointment at the parish church with the village 
choristers, who were to perform some music of his 
selection. There was something extremely agreeable 
in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little 



178 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

man; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at 
his apt quotations from authors who certainly were 
not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned 
this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who tolJ 
me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of 
erudition was confined to some half a dozen old au= 
thors, which the squire had put into his hands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a stu< 
dious fit; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or 
a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's 
Book of Husbandry; Markham's Country Content- 
ments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cock- 
ayne, Knight; Izaak Walton's Angler, and two or 
three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his 
standard authorities; and, like all men who know 
but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of 
idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his 
songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popu- 
lar among the choice spirits of the last century. His 
practical application of scraps of literature, however, 
had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of 
book-knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and 
small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of 
the village bell, and I was told that the squire was a 
little particular in having his household at church on 
a Christmas morning ; considering it a day of pouring 
out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser ob- 
served, — 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful tvithal, 
: ' And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small.'* 

"If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 179 

cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church 
is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from 
the village amateurs, and established a musical club 
for their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as 
he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to 
the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country 
Contentments ; for the bass he has sought out all the 
*deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the 'loud- 
ringing mouths, ' among the country bumpkins ; and 
for 'sweet mouths' he has culled with curious taste 
among the prettiest lassies in the neighborhood; 
though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult 
to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being ex- 
ceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably 
fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the 
church, which was a very old building of gray stone, 
and stood near a village, about half a mile from the 
park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, 
which seemed coeval with the church. The front of 
it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that had been 
trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of 
which, apertures had been formed to admit light into 
the small antique lattices. As we passed this shel- 
tered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity 
of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The 
parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a 
grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from 
each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He 
wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that 



180 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

would have held the church Bible and prayer-book: 
and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being 
planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous 
buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the par- 
son had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and 
had received this living shortly after the latter had 
come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter 
hunter,^ and would scarcely read a work printed in 
the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was inde- 
fatigable in his researches after such old English writ- 
ers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthless- 
ness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. 
Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into 
the festive rites and holiday customs of former times ; 
and had been as zealous in the inquiry, as if he had 
been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that 
plodding spirit with which men of adust ^ temperament 
follow up any track of study, merely because it is de- 
nominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, 
whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the 
ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored 
over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed 
to have been reflected into his countenance ; which, if 
the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be 
compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson 
rebuking the gray -headed sexton for having used mis- 

1 That is, a person fond of collecting those earliest of English 
works that were printed in black-letter (33lacfc=lLetter). Such works 
belong to the fourteenth century. 

2 From the Latin adustus, inflamed or scorched. It is used 
here in the decaying sense of gloomy or melancholic. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 181 

tletoe among the greens with which the chuxch was 
decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, 
profane by having been used by the Druids in their 
mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be innocently 
employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the 
Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred 
purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that 
the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part 
of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson 
would consent to enter upon the service of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable, but sim- 
ple; on the walls were several mural monuments of 
the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb 
of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a 
warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his 
having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the 
family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, 
and the same whose picture hung over the fire-place in 
the hall. 

During service. Master Simon stood up in thd pew, 
and repeated the responses very audibly; evincing 
that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed 
by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old 
family connections. I observed, too, that he turned 
over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with something 
of a flourish, possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring 
which enriched one of his fingers, and which had 
the look of a family relic. But he was evidently 
most solicitous about the musical part of the service, 
keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beat- 
lag time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented 
a» most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above 



182 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

the other, among which I particularly noticed that of 
the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating fore- 
head and chin, who played on the clarinet, and seemed 
to have blown his face to a point; and there was 
another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at 
a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a 
round bald head, like the Qgg of an ostrich. There 
were two or three pretty faces among the female sing- 
ers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had 
given a bright rosy tint ; but the gentlemen choristers 
had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, 
more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing 
from the same book, there were clusterings of odd 
physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we 
sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed toler- 
ably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little 
behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler 
now and then making up for lost time by travelling 
over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing 
more bars than the keenest fox-hmiter to be in at the 
death. But the great trial was an anthem that had 
been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on 
which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily 
there was a blunder at the very outset ; the musicians 
became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever ; every- 
thing went on lamely and irregularly until they came 
to a chorus beginning, "Now let us sing with one 
accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting com- 
pany : all became discord and confusion ; each shifted 
for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as 
soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair 
of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long, 
sonorous nose, who happened to stand a little apart, 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 183 

and, being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a 
quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, 
and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three 
bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the 
rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety 
of observing it, not merely as a day of thanksgiving, 
but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his 
opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and 
enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of 
Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, 
and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom 
he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss 
to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array of 
forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed 
inclined to dispute; but I soon found that the good 
man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; 
having, in the course of his researches on the subject 
of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the secta- 
rian controversies of the He volution, when the Puri- 
tans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies 
of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out 
of the land by proclamation of Parliament.^ The 

1 From the Flying Eagle, a small gazette, published Decem- 
ber 24, 1652 : *'The House spent much time this day about the 
business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and, before 
they rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against 
Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16 ; 1 
Cor. XV. 14, 17 ; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded 
upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1 ; Rev. i. 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24; 
Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 ; Psalm Ixxxiv. 10 ; in which 
Christmas is called Anti-christ's masse, and those Masse-mon- 
gers and Papists who observe it, &e. In consequence of which 
Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition 
of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit 



184 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

wortLy parson lived but witli times past, and knew but 
little -of the present. 

Sbut up among worm-eaten tomes in tbe retirement 
of bis antiquated little study, tbe pages of old times 
were to bim as tbe gazettes of tbe day ; wbile tbe era 
of tbe Revolution was mere modern bistory. He for- 
got tbat nearly two centuries bad elapsed since tbe fiery 
persecution of poor mince-pie tbrougbout tbe landj 
wben plum porridge was denounced as "mere pop- 
ery," and roast beef as anti-cbristian ; and tbat Cbrist- 
mas bad been brougbt in again triumphantly witb tbe 
merry court of King Cbarles at tbe Restoration. He 
kindled into warmtb witb*tbe ardor of bis contest, and 
tbe bost of imaginary foes witb wbom be bad to com- 
bat ; be bad a stubborn conflict witb old Prynne and 
two or tbree otber forgotten champions of tbe Round 
Heads,^ on tbe subject of Christmas festivity; and 
concluded by urging bis bearers, in the most solemn 
and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional cus- 
toms of their fathers, and feast and make merry on 
this joyful anniversary of the church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 
witb more immediate effects; for on leaving the 
church, the congregation seemed one and all possessed 
with tbe gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their 
pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the 
church -yard, greeting and shaking hands; and tbe 
children ran about crying "Ule! Ule! " and repeating 

on the following day, which was commonly called Christmas 
day."— W. I. 

^ A nickname given to the Puritans, or Parliamentary 
party, in the reign of Charles I., in allusion to their short- 
cut hair. The Cavaliers, or Royalists, wore their hair in long 
ringlets. 



CHRISTMAS DAY, 185 

some uncoutli rhymes/ whicli the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down from 
days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the 
squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, 
and were invited by him to the hall, to take something 
to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I heard bless- 
ings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced 
me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas 
virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward, his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over 
a rising ground which commanded something of a 
prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then 
reached our ears; the squire paused for a few mo- 
ments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible 
benignity. The beauty of the day was, of itseK, suf- 
ficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the 
frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless 
journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away 
the thin covering of snow from every southern decliv- 
ity, and to bring out the living green which adorns 
an English landscape even in mid-winter. Large 
tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling 
whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every 
sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, 
yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glit- 
tering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight 
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung 

1 " Ule ! Ule ! 
Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack nuts and cry ' Ule. ' " 

Ule is perhaps the same as Yule, a word that means Christmas, 
*^ Three puddings in a pule," that is, in a splutter or stew. 



186 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

just above the surface of the earth. There was some- 
thing truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and 
verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it was, 
as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hos- 
pitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and 
selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. He 
pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer 
reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farm- 
houses and low thatched cottages. "I love," said he, 
"to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a 
great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when 
you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and 
of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to 
you; and I am almost disposed to join with Poor 
Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to 
this honest festival : — 

" * Those who at Christmas do repine, 

And would fain hence despatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry ' dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch ^ catch 'em.' " 

^ " It is cruel and shameful that the name of the worthy Duke 
Humphrey of Gloucester should be associated with the want of 
a dinner, for he was celebrated for his hospitality." 

Notes and Queries. 

Humphrey Plantagenet, Duke of Gloucester, was the youngest 
son of Henry IV., who reigned from 1399 to 1413. To dine 
with Duke Humphrey meant originally to have a good dinner, 
then to eat by the bounty of another, and finally, after the 
duke's death, it came to signify among his former almsmen, 
by a kind of irony, to go without a dinner. Another account 
plausibly attributes the proverb to a wit who came down from 
Loudon with a party of friends to dine at the White Hart Inn at 
St. Albans, but who was accidentally shut up in the Abbey of St. 
Albans, where Humphrey lay buried, and so lost his dinner. 

2 Also known as Jack Ketch, a name given in England to the 
public hangman or executioner. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 187 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay 
of the games and amusements which were once preva- 
lent at this season among the lower orders, and coun- 
tenanced by the higher ; when the old halls of castles 
and manor-houses were thrown open at daylight ; when 
the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and 
humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded 
all day long, and when rich and poor were alike wel- 
come to enter and make merry. ^ "Our old games 
and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in 
making the peasant fond of his home, and the promo- 
tion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. 
They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, 
and I can truly say, with one of our old poets, — 

" ' I like them well — the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have 
almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They 
have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem 
to think their interests are separate. They have 
become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, 
listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of reform. I 
think one mode to keep them in good humor in these 
hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to 

^ " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e. 
on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neigh- 
bors enter his hall by day-break. The strong beer was broached, 
and the black jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar and 
nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sau- 
sage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must 
take the maiden (/. e. the cook) by the arms and run her round 
the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness." (Quoted 
by Irving from Round about our Sea- Coal Fire.) 



188 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

pass more time on their estates, mingle more among 
the country people, and set the merry old English 
games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating 
public discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted 
to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years before 
had kept open house during the holidays in the old 
style. The country people, however, did not under- 
stand how to play their parts in the scene of hospital- 
ity ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor 
was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and 
more beggars drawn into the neighborhood in one 
week than the parish officers could get rid of in a 
year. Since then, he had contented himseK with 
inviting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry 
to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with distrib- 
uting beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that 
they might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sour^l of 
music was heard from a distance. A band of coun- 
try lads, without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully 
tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with greens, 
and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the 
avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and 
peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where 
the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, 
retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping 
exact time to the music; while one, whimsically 
crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted 
down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the 
dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic 
gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 189 

interest and delight, and gave me a full account of its 
origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans 
held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this 
was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the 
ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, 
but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, 
to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by 
the rough cudgel-play, and broken heads in the even- 
ing." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party 
was entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home- 
brewed. The squire himself mingled among the rus- 
tics, and was received with awkward demonstrations 
of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived two or 
three of the younger peasants, as they were raising 
their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's back 
was turned, making something of a grimace, and giv- 
ing each other the wink; but the moment they caught 
my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly 
demure. With Master Simon, however, they all 
seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations 
and amusements had made him well known through- 
out the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every 
farmhouse and cottage; gossiped with the farmers 
and their wives; romped with their daughters; and, 
like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humble-bee, 
tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country 
round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genu- 
ine and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, 
when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of 
those above them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters 



190 WASHINGTON IRVING. 

into their mirth, and a kind word or a small plea- 
santry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart 
of the dependent more than oil and wine. When the 
squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there 
was much joking and laughter, particularly between 
Master Simon and a hale, ruddy -faced, white-headed 
farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village; for 
I observed all his companions to wait with open 
mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous 
laugh before they could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 
ment; as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I 
heard the sound of music in a small court, and look- 
ing through a window that commanded it, I perceived 
a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes 
and tambourine; a pretty, coquettish housemaid was 
dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several 
of the other servants were looking on. In the midst 
of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at 
the window, and, coloring up, ran off with an air of 
roguish affected confusion. 



GEAMMATICAL NOTES 

ON 

THE STAGE-COACH AND THE MUTABILITY OF 
LITERATURE.i 

By ARTHUR MARVIN, M.A., 
Principal of the Union Classical Institute, Schenectady, N. Y. 

These grammatical notes have been prepared to aid students 
who may take either " 1st Year English " or " Advanced Eng- 
lish," as outlined in the " Academic Syllabus " issued by the Uni- 
versity of the State of New York. 

The following quotation from the " Academic Syllabus " indi- 
cates the nature of the grammatical study : " The study of 
grammar in this course is chiefly the study of syntax. . . . This 
should include a knowledge of all case relations, the classifica- 
tion of adjective relations as attributive, appositive, and predi- 
cate, of the sequence of tenses, of the meaning and sequence of 
modal auxiliaries, of the dependence and classification of subordi- 
nate clauses, of the syntax of infinitives and participles, and their 
equivalents in phrase and clause. Phrases should be classified 
as denoting agency, limit of motion, place in which, place from 
which, instrument or means, and accompaniment. Adverbial 
clauses should be classified as clauses of time, place, degree, 
manner, cause, purpose, result, condition, and concession." 

The tabulated statement on the next page will be found con- 
venient for reference. 



^ The references in parentheses, following the definitions, are to pages and lines 
of " The Stage-Coach " and " The Mutability of Literature," in which illustrative 
examples occur. 



192 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

SYNTAX.— Main subject of study. 

(1) Case relations. 

( Attributive, 

(2) Adjective relations i Appositive, 

' Predicate. 

(3) Sequence of tenses. 

(4) Modal auxiliaries — Meaning and sequence. 

(5) Subordinate clauses — Dependence and classification. 

(6) Infinitives and Participles, with equivalents. 

r Agency, 

I Limit of motion, 

^ Place in which, 

(7) Phrases denoting i p^^^^ ^^^^ ^^.^^^ 

I Instrument or means, 
I Accompaniment. 

Time, 

Place, 

Degree, 

Manner, 

(8) Adverbial clauses ^ Cause, 

{ Purpose, 
I Result, 

Condition, 
t Concession. 

The business of Syntax is to explain the meaning and func- 
tion of grammatical forms, especially the various ways in which 
words are joined together in sentences. Syntax can be studied 
from two points of view. Either we can start from the grammat- 
ical forms and explain their uses ; or we can take a grammatical 
category and describe the different forms by which it is expressed. 
These may be distinguished as formal and logical syntax respec- 
tively. It is evident that the first business of syntax is to deal 
with the phenomena of language formally, reserving logical state- 
ments till all the grammatical forms of the language have had 
their functions explained. Logical syntax belongs more to gen- 
eral grammar than to the special grammar of one language. 

Case Relations. 

The most important cases in language generally are the 
nominative, vocative, accusative, dative, genitive, instrumental, 
locative. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 193 

The nominative is the " subject-case," its main function being 
to mark the subject of a sentence. An " attributive comple- 
ment " is also in the nominative case. A word or expression 
used in the predicate to modify or explain the subject is called 
an attributive complement. (M. L. 107 : 5.) 

The vocative is the " exclamation-case," or, in other words, it is 
a noun used as a sentence-word ; we might therefore call it the 
"sentence-case." When a noun stands for the person spoken 
to or addressed, it is said to be in the vocative case. (M. L. 
105: 18.) 

The accusative or " direct object case " serves to complete the 
meaning of a transitive verb. (S. C. 152 : 14.) 

If another noun-word is required to complete the meaning of 
a transitive verb, it is generally in the dative or " indirect ob- 
ject" relation. The dative generally denotes the person affected 
by or interested in the action expressed by the verb ; the dative 
is therefore the "interest case." (M. L. 103 : 13 ; S. C. 150 : 
23.) 

The genitive case shows that the noun in the genitive case 
is an adjunct to another word — generally a noun ; it may there- 
fore be regarded as the " adjective case." The so-called " pos- 
sessive " case, denoting ownership, origin, or fitness, is the same 
as the genitive. (S. C. 150 : 6 ; S. C, 154.: 8.) 

The instrumental case expresses the instrument or manner of an 
action. 

The locative case expresses place. (S. C. 150 : 22.) 

The instrumental and locative may be regarded as " adverb 
cases," for, like adverbs, nouns in these cases are used chiefly to 
modify verbs. 

English has only one inflected case, the genitive, the uninflected 
base being equivalent to the nominative, vocative, accusative, and 
dative of such a language as Latin. The apostrophe shows an 
abbreviation of the Old English genitive ending in es or is. 

Adjective Relations. 

Attributive expresses quality or characteristic in direct descrip- 
tion withput predication. (S. C. 150: 1.) 

Appositive expresses a less close relation than the proper attrib- 
utive, being added rather parenthetically, or by way of substi- 
tute for a qualifying clause. (M. L. 101: 16.) 

When the adjective forms a part of the predicate and explains 
the subject it is called a predicate adjective. (S. C. 150 : 7.) 



194 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 



Sequence of Tenses. 

Tense is primarily the grammatical expression of distinctions 
of time. 

The present, preterite (or past), and future are simple tenses ; 
the perfect, pluperfect, and future perfect are compound tenses. 

When we speak of an occurrence as past, etc., we must have 
some point of time from which to measure it. When we measure 
the time of an occurrence from the time when we are speaking, 
that is, from the present, the tense which expresses the time of 
the occurrence is called 2if primary tense. The present, preterite, 
future, and perfect are primary tenses. A secondary tense is 
measured, not from the time when we are speaking, but from some 
past or future time of which we are speaking, and consequently 
a sentence containing a secondary tense makes us expect another 
sentence containing a verb in a primary tense to show the time 
from which that of the secondary tense is to be measured. The 
pluperfect and future perfect are both secondary tenses. The 
definite preterite is also a secondary tense. 

The pluperfect and the definite preterite are both measured 
from a past primary tense. The future perfect is measured from 
a future primary tense. 

The primary tense required to supplement a secondary tense 
need not always be expressed, if it is clear from the context. The 
secondary tense when thus used is called an independent secondary 
tense. 

Tenses differ greatly in definiteness. The shorter a tense is, 
the more definite it generally is both in duration and in its rela- 
tion to the distinctions of past, present, and future. Long 
tenses, whether continuous or recurrent, are generally more m- 
definite. When a tense is used without implying any real dis- 
tinctions of time, it is called neutral. 

The following table will show the chief tenses used in English 
in simple statements : — 

Indefinite. Definite. 



Present. 

Preterite. 

Perfect. 

Pluperfect. 

Future. 

Future Perfect. 



I see. 

I saw. 

I have seen. 

I had seen. 

I shall see. 

I shall have seen. 



I am seeing. 

I was seeing. 

I have been seeing. 

I had been seeing. 

I shall be seeing. 

I shall have been seeing. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 195 

TENSES IN DETAIL. 

Present. 

1. The indefinite present is a neutral tense, implying that a 
statement is of general application, and holds good for all time, 
or that an action or phenomenon is habitual or recurrent. (S. C. 
152 : 7.) 

2. If the actual present is meant, the definite form is used. 

3. The definite present is also used as a neutral present to 
show that continuity and not repetition is meant. (M. L.113: 4.) 

4. The indefinite present is regularly used instead of the future 
in clauses dependent on a sentence which contains a verb in the 
future. (S. C. 155 : 11.) The present is also used instead of 
the future in some independent sentences. (S. C. 158 : 10.) 

5. The definite present is also used in a future sense, but only 
in combination with verbs of motion. 

Preterite. 

1. The preterite is used in the sense of the neutral present in 
clauses dependent on a sentence whose verb is in the preterite. 
In some cases it is used almost as the equivalent of a full pre- 
sent. (M. L. 104 : 27.) 

2. The preterite is used in many cases where we might sub- 
stitute the perfect with but slight change of meaning. (M. L. 
103: 28 ; 109 : 15.) 

3. It can be used in the same way as a substitute for the plu- 
perfect. (M. L. 108 : 2.) 

4. The definite preterite of some verbs is used in the sense of 
the future. 

Perfect. 

1. The perfect is sometimes equivalent to the present. 
(M. L. 106 : 20 ; 112 : 22.) 

2. The perfect is often used instead of the preterite to express 
something which, though already detached from the present, is 
connected with the present in thought. (M. L. 103 : 11 ; S. C. 
150: 1.) 

3. The perfect is used instead of the future perfect in clauses 
dependent on a sentence with a verb in the future, and in other 
cases where the future meaning is clear from the context. 



196 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

Pluperfect. 

1. The pluperfect is sometimes used for the preterite. (M. L. 
113 : 11 ; 112 : 14.) 

Fuhire. 
1. The future is sometimes used instead of the present. 
(M. L. 113 : 26.) 

The Modal Auxiliaries 

are can, may, must, should, would, and ought. 

Can is used in the indicative only with the simple infinitive to 
express power or ability. (M. L. 105 : 22.) Could is some- 
times used to form the past tense of ca7i (M. L. 102 : 22), and 
sometimes to express present power conditionally. In the latter 
case, could is subjunctive. 

May is indicative when it expresses permission or ability, 
(M. L. 104 : 32) ; it is subjunctive when it expresses doubt as 
to the reality of an action, or when it expresses wish or purpose. 
(M. L. Ill : 27.) Might is sometimes used to form the past 
tense of may. (M. L. 105 : 25.) 

Must expresses necessity, fixed determination, or certainty. 
Must is present or past tense, according to the infinitive used. 
It is used only in the indicative mood. (S. C. 155 : 1.) 

Should, the past tense of shall, and would, the past tense of will, 
are used, especially in dependent clauses, after a past tense 
chiefly : — 

(1) To assert a fact that is coupled with some condition ; 

(2) to express the condition itself ; 

(3) in both clauses. 

Should is used with the meaning of obligation, and is nearly 
equivalent to ought in an independent sentence. (M. L. 108 : 10.) 

Would is sometimes used to express a present wish or desire. 
(M. L. 112 : 9.) 

Ought, the past tense of owe, is used only in the indicative mood. 
The infinitive following ought always retains the sign to. It ex- 
presses duty, obligation, fitness, expediency, or propriety. The 
reference to present or past time is determined by the tense of 
the infinitive. Ought is used in a stronger sense than should, to 
express moral obligation. 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 197 

Subordinate Clauses. 

According to the part which it plays in the sentence, a subordi- 
nate clause is called an adjective clause, an adverb clause, or a 
noun clause. 

An adjective clause is always equivalent to an attributive or 
appositive adjective, and usually follows the noun or pronoun 
which it qualifies. It may be introduced by a relative pronoun or 
its equivalent, and may modify: — 

(1) The subject. (M. L. 109 : 15 ; S. C. 151 : 9.) 

(2) The object. (M. L. 101 : 3 ; S. C. 150 : 7 ; 156 : 22.) 

(3) Any noun in the subject or predicate. (M. L. 106 : 28 ; 
S. C. 156 : 9.) 

An adverb clause usually qualifies a verb ; much less often, an 
adjective ; and rarely, an adverb. 
An adverb clause may denote : — 

(1) Time, introduced by after, as, before, since, till, when, ivhile- 
(M. L. 101 : 8 ; 105 : 5 ; S. C. 153 : 3.) 

(2) Place, introduced by where, whence, whither. (M. L. 
106 : 5.) 

(3) Manner, introduced by as. (M. L. 102 : 3 ; S. C. 152 : 8.) 

(4) Degree, introduced by than, as. (M. L. 104 : 11 ; S. C. 
151 : 12.) 

(5) Cause or reason, introduced by because, for, since, as, that. 
(M. L. 104 : 16 ; 112 : 12 ; S. C. 155 : 5.) 

(6) Purpose, introduced by that, lest. (M. L. 104 : 32; 106 : 9.) 

(7) Result, introduced by that, till. (M. L. 106 : 29 ; 107 : 7 ; 
S. C. 152 : 3.) 

(8) Condition, introduced by if, unless, except, but. (M. L. 104 : 
30 ; S. C. 155 : 8.) 

(9) Concession, introduced by though, although, however. (M. L. 
108 : 21 ; 110 : 1.) 

The noun clause may be used as : — 

(1) Subject of the verb. 

(2) Object of the verb. (M. L. 108 : 19 ; 113 : 2; S. C. 156 : 9.) 

(3) Predicate nominative. (M. L. 104 : 9.) 

(4) Appositive. (M. L. 104 : 28 ; S. C. 155 : 10.) 

(5) Object of a preposition. 

(6) Object of an adjective. (S. C. 158 : 5.) 

The words which most often introduce a noun clause are the 
following : — 



198 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

(1) The compound relative pronouns and pronominal adjec- 
tives, with their corresponding adverbs — who, whose, whom, what, 
which, when, zvhere, whence, whither, why, how, whoever, whenever, 
etc. 

(2) The conjunction whether, expressing a doubt or alternative 
(M. L. 115 : 9 ; S. C. 156 : 9). If is sometimes used instead of 
whether. 

(3) The conjunction ^^a^ (M. L. 104: 16). Also, lest, vf hen 
equivalent to that not. 

Infinitives and Participles (with equivalents). 

Verbals are a class of words intermediate between verbs on the 
one hand and nouns and adjectives on the other : they do not ex- 
press predication, but keep all the other meanings and gram- 
matical functions of the verbs from which they are formed. 
Noun-verbals comprise infinitives and gerunds. Adjective-ver- 
bals comprise ysivioxus participles. 

Uses of Infinitives (i?icluding Supines.) 

I. The Verbal use. 

(1) Completing an incomplete verb, but having no other office 

than a verbal one. 
(a) with may, can, should, would, ought (S. C. 150 : 5) ; 
(&) with the forms of be, being equivalent to a future 

with obligation, necessity, etc, (S. C. 151 : 3) ; 
(c) with the definite forms of go, equivalent to a future. 

(2) Completing an incomplete transitive verb, but also belong- 

ing to a subject or an object. (M. L. 105 : 24 ; S. C. 
150: 5.) 

II. The Substantive use. 

(1) As the subject of a verb. (S. C. 158 : 4.) 

(2) As the object of a verb. (M. L. 102 : 27 ; 106 : 30 ; S. C 

153: 14.) 

(3) As the attributive complement. (M. L. 105 : 10; 108 : 25 ; 

S. C. 153 : 2.) 

(4) In apposition with a substantive. (S. C. 151 : 1 ; 151 : 29.) 

(5) As the object of a preposition. 

III. The Adjective use. 

(1) To modify a noun. (M. L. 114 : 18 ; 115 : 2 ; S. C. 151 : 

26.) 

(2) As the attributive complement of a verb. (M. L. 108 : 29 ; 

S. C. 160 : 3 ; 154 : 7.) 



GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 199 

I V. The A dverh use, to express — 

(1) Purpose. (M. L. 104 : 27 ; S. C. 155 : 6.) 

(2) Result. (M. L. 104 : 22 ; S. C. 152 : 21.) 

(3) Reason. (S. C. 157 : 6.) 

(4) Degree. 

(5) Condition. (M. L. 105 : 20.) 

V. The Independent use. 

(1) Thrown loosely into a sentence. (M. L. 104 : 8.) 

(2) Exclamatory. 

Note. — When the act or condition expressed by an infinitive 
is subsequent in time to that expressed by the principal verb, the 
infinitive must be in the present tense. 

When the dependent infinitive expresses an act or condition 
prior to that of the principal verb, it must be in the perfect tense. 
(M. L. 106 : 1.) 

Uses of Participles. 

I. The Verbal use. 

(1) With the verb be the imperfect participle is used to form 

the definite tenses. 

(2) With the verb be the past participle is used to form the 

passive voice. 

(3) With the verb be the past participle of intransitive verbs 

is used, forming a construction equivalent to the pre- 
terite and pluperfect tenses active. 

II. The Substantive use. 

The noun use of the participle is properly an example either 
of a verbal noun in ing or of the gerund or infinitive in ing. 

(1) The subject of a verb. (M. L. 114 : 8.) 

(2) The attributive complement of a verb. (S. C. 150 : 13, 

16.) 

(3) The object of a verb. (S. C. 156 : 33.) 

(4) The object of a preposition. (M. L. 105 : 23 ; S. C. 

150: 4.) 

III. The adj'ective use. 

(1) To limit a noun. (M. L. 101 : 9; 111 : 19; S. C. 154 : 14.) 

(2) To limit a pronoun. (S. C. 158 : 5 ; M. L. 103 : 26.) 

(3) As an attributive complement. (M. L. 102 : 23; 103 : 29; 

S. C. 154 : 26.) 
The adjective use of the participle as attributive complement 
forms the compound definite tenses of the verb. When the par- 



200 GRAMMATICAL NOTES. 

ticipial form stands for a condition or quality, it is to be regarded 
as simply an adjective, (M. L. 110: 6.) 
IV. The adverb use. 

A participial phrase, though referring directly to a noun in the 
subject of a sentence, is often an abridged form for an adverb 
clause, and performs in the sentence the office of an adverb. It 
should, however, be parsed as referring to the noun whose act it 
expresses. (M. L. 102 : 7.) 

Prepositional Phrases. 
A prepositional phrase may be used — 

(1) As an adjective. (M. L. 102 : 8; 106 : 21; S. C.151: 16.) 

(2) As an adverb. (M. L. 101 : 9.) 

(3) As a substantive. 

(4) As a verb. 

The use of a phrase may be determined frequently by the 
meaning of the introductory preposition. The meanings are very 
numerous, but they may be classed under the three heads of (a) 
space, including place, rest, and motion, (b) time, and (c) other 
abstract relations, such as quantity, manner, cause, deprivation. 

1. Agency and Instrument or means. The agent is conceived 
as the author or source of the action. (M. L. 103 : 21.) The 
instrument or means refers to an animal or thing, the agent to a 
person. Cf. Latin ablative of agent, ablative of means. (S. C. 
152: 10.) 

2. Place. Limit of motion means place to which, and is usually 
introduced by to or into. Cf. Latin accusative, end of motion. 
(S. C. 153 : 32.) 

Place in which or place where corresponds to the Latin loca- 
tive ablative. (S. C. 150 : 1.) 

Place from which corresponds to the Latin ablative with ab, de, 
or ex. (S. C. 154 : 1.) 

3. A ccompaniment. A phrase denoting accompaniment is usu- 
ally indicated by the preposition with, and corresponds to the 
Latin ablative of accompaniment. (S. C. 156 : 18.) 



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